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^f.   III.. 


'^'^  "U 


THE  CHILDREN  IN  THE  CAVE. 
Black  Ship.  fkomispieck. 


p.  1. 


THE 


BLACK    SHIP 


©tf)cr  2[Il£gorics  anU  l^arabks. 


by  tue  author  of 

"the  voice  of  christian  life  in  sono, 
"the  three  wakings,"  etc. 


NEir  YORK: 

Gen.  Prot.  Episc.  S.  S.  Union  and 

Church  Book  Society, 

762  broadway, 

1862. 


4455 
C3Sb 


CONTENTS. 


PAGB 

the  black  ship,         ....        i 

the  ruined  temple,         ...  47 

the  jewel  of  the  order  of  the 

king's  own,         ....  69 

the  cathedral  chimes,  .       .       .  loi 

what  makes  things  musical?        .  1 23 

the  acorn,         ,        .        .  •  ^37 

parables  in  household  things,    .  1 53 

passages  from  the  life  of  a  fern,  169 


6226ri6 


PARABLES — 

THE  CLOCK-BELL  AND  THE  ALARM- 
BELL,      187 

THORNS  AND  SPINES,         .  .  -195 

SUNSHINE,    DAYLIGHT,     AND      THE 

ROCK, 203 

WANDERERS  AND  PILCJRIMS,      .  .      20/ 

THE  ARK  AND  THE  FORTRESS,  .      215 

THE  THREE  DREAMS,          .           .  .221 

THOU  AND  I,      .          .          .          .  229 


utje  25lacfe  ^Iji'p, 


m)z  Black  felji'p. 


IPIEY  lived  at  the  foot  of  the 
Pine  Mountains,  in  the  island 
of  the  King's  Garden,  the 
mother,  with  her  little  son  and  daughter. 
The  boy's  name  was  Hope,  and  the 
little  girl's,  May.  The  ehildren  loved 
each  other  dearly,  and  were  never  sepa- 
rated. They  never  had  any  quarrels,  be- 
cause Hope  was  the  leader  in  all  their 
expeditions  and  plays;  and  May  firmly 
believed  that  everything  which  Hope 
planned  and  did,  was  better  planned  and 
better  done  than  it  would  have  been  by 


THE  BLACK  SHIP. 


any  one  else  in  the  world,  by  whieh  May 
meant  the  island.  Hope,  on  his  side, 
had  always  a  tender  consideration  for 
little  May  in  his  schemes,  such  as  kings 
should  have  for  their  subjects.  May 
would  never  have  dreamed  of  originat- 
ing any  scheme  herself,  or  of  question- 
ing any  which  Hope  planned.  Tf  you 
had  taken  away  May  from  Hope,  you 
would  have  taken  away  his  kingdom, 
his  armv,  his  right  hand;  if  you  had 
taken  away  Hope  from  May,  you  would 
have  robbed  her  of  her  leader,  her  king, 
her  head,  her  sun.  Bereaved  of  May, 
I  think  Hope  would  have  been  driven 
from  his  desolate  home  into  the  wide 
world;  bereaved  of  Hope,  I  am  sure  May 
would  never  have  left  her  home,  but  sat 
silent  there  until  she  pined  away.     Bui 


THE  BLACK  SHIP. 


together,  life  was  one  holiday  to  them  ; 
work  was  a  keener  kind  of  play,  and 
every  day  was  too  narrow  for  the  happy 
occiipations  of  which  each  hour  was 
brimful.  Their  cottage  was  at  the  foot 
of  the  mountains,  on  the  sea-shore. 
Indeed,  every  house  and  cottage  in  the 
island  stood  on  the  sea-shore,  because 
the  island  was  so  long  and  narrow,  that, 
from  the  top  of  the  mountain  range 
which  divided  it,  you  could  see  the  sea 
on  both  sides.  If  in  any  place  the  coast 
widened,  little  creeks  ran  in  among  the 
hills,  and  made  the  sea  accessible  from 
all  points.  The  island  consisted  entirely 
of  this  one  mountain  range  towering  to 
the  clouds ;  the  higlier  peaks  covered 
with  snow,  with  a  strip  of  coast  at  their 
feet,  sometimes    narrowing  to  a    little 


THE  BLACK  SHIP. 


fehingly  beach,  sometimes  expanding 
to  a  fertile  plain,  where  beautiful  cities 
with  fairy  bell-towers  and  marble  palaces 
gleamed  like  ivory  carvings  amidst  the 
palms  and  thick  green  trees. 

But  Hope  and  May  knew  nothing  of 
the  island  beyond  the  little  bay  they  lived 
in,  and  no  one  they  had  ever  seen  or 
heard  of  had  scaled  the  mountain  range 
and  looked  on  the  other  side;  no  one, 
either  in  the  scattered  fishermen's  huts 
around  them,  or  in  the  white  town  which 
perched  like  a  sea-bird  on  the  crags  on 
the  opposite  side  of  the  bay.  Indeed,  it 
was  only  from  their  mother's  words  that 
the  children  knew  their  country  was  an 
island ;  and  ever  since  they  had  heard  this, 
the  great  subject  of  Hope's  dreams,  and 
the  great  object  of  his  schemes,  had  been 


THE  BLACK  SHIP. 


to  scale  the  mountains  and  look  on  the 
other  side.  But  this  was  quite  a  secret 
between  Hope  and  May;  the  happy 
secret  which  formed  the  endless  interest 
of  their  long  talks  and  rambles,  but  which 
they  could  not  speak  of  to  their  mother, 
because  she  was  so  tenderly  timid  about 
them,  and  because  it  was  to  be  the  great 
surprise  which  one  day  was  to  enchant 
her,  when  Hope  was  a  man.  He  was 
to  scale  the  mountains,  penetrate  to  the 
wondrous  land  on  the  other  side,  and 
bring  thence  imtold  treasures  and  tales 
of  marvels  to  May  and  his  mother. 

The  children  thought  Hope  would 
very  soon  be  old  enough  to  go ;  and 
they  had  a  little  cave  in  the  rocks  close 
to  the  sea  where  they  treasured  up  dried 
fruits  and  bits  of  iron  to  make  tools  of 


8  THE  BLACK  SHIP. 

with  which  to  chop  away  the  tangled 
branches  in  the  forests,  and  cut  steps  in 
the  glaciers  which  Hope  was  to  traverse. 
The  lower  hills  the  children  knew  well ; 
and  the  ravine  which  wound  up  far 
among  the  hills  they  had  nearly  fixed  on 
as  the  commencement  of  the  journey. 

So  the  days  passed  on  with  the  chil- 
dren, rich  in  purposes  and  bright  with 
happy  work.  For  they  were  helpful  to 
their  mother.  From  their  mountain 
expeditions  they  brought  her  firewood, 
and  forest-honey,  and  eggs  of  wild-fowl, 
and  various  sweet  wild  -  berries,  and 
wholesome  roots.  They  always  noticed 
that  their  mother  encouraged  these 
mountain  expeditions,  and  seemed  much 
happier  when  they  took  that  direction 
than  when  they  kept  by  the  sea. 


THE  BLACK  SHIP. 


Once  Hope  had  said  to  her — 
"Mother,  how  beautiful  our  country 
is !  and  I  think  it  is  so  happy  always  to 
be  in  sight  of  the  sea.  How  dull  those 
lands  must  be  you  tell  us  of  which  are 
so  large  that  many  people  have  to  live 
out  of  hearing  of  the  waves !  I  could  not 
bear  to  live  there;  it  must  seem  so  nar- 
row and  close  to  be  shut  in  on  the  land 
with  nothing  beyond.  But  here  we  can 
nevxT  get  out  of  sight  of  the  sea.  Mav 
and  I  always  find,  wherever  we  roam 
among  the  hills,  we  never  lose  the  sea. 
When  we  wander  far  back  from  the 
shore,  the  beautiful  blue  waters  seem  to 
follow  us  as  if  they  loved  us;  and  in 
the  inmost  recesses  of  the  mountains  we 
always  see  beneath  us  some  glimpse  of 
bright  water  in  the  creeks,  which  run 


10  THE  BLACK  SHIP. 

up  among  the  hills,  or  the  rivers  which 
come  down  to  meet  them.  The  sea 
seems  to  love  every  corner  of  our  coun- 
try, mother,  and  penetrate  everywhere." 

A  cold  shudder  passed  over  the 
mother's  frame,  and  tears  gathered  in 
her  eyes. 

"  The  sea  is  indeed  everywhere,  my 
children,"  she  murmured,  and  then  with 
a  burst  of  irresistible  emotion  she  clasped 
them  to  her  heart,  and  added  bitterly, 
"  Happy  the  country  which  that  sea 
cannot  approach ! '' 

May  and  Hope  wondered  greatly  at 
her  words;  but  there  was  something  in 
her  manner  which  awed  them  into  si- 
lence. For  some  time  after  that,  they 
often  speculated  together  as  to  what 
her  words  could  mean,  a  vague  terror 


THE  BLACK  SHIP.  II 

seemed  to  murmur  in  the  ripple  of  the 
waves.  But  gradually  the  impression 
wore  off  in  the  happy  forgetfulncss  of 
childhood,  and  their  old  schemes  were 
resumed  with  the  same  zest  as  before. 

One  evening,  however,  as  they  were 
busied  with  their  treasures  in  the  cave, 
the  tide  surprised  them,  and  when  they 
set  out  to  return  home  they  found 
the  rocky  point  which  separated  them 
from  their  cottage  surrounded  with 
deep  water.  The  sides  of  the  cliff  in 
the  little  cove  where  their  cave  lay  were 
sheer  precipices  of  smooth  rock,  too 
steep  to  climb,  so  that  the  children  had 
to  wait  some  hours  before  they  could 
creep  round  the  point.  Eagerly  they 
watched  the  declining;  sun  and  the  re- 
treating  tide,  and  when  the  waves  were 


12  THE  BLACK  SHIP. 

only  ankle-deep  they  bounded  through 
them,  and  in  a  few  minutes  were  at  the 
cottage  door.  It  was  not  yet  dark,  and 
the  children  were  dancing  into  the  cot- 
tage full  of  spirits  at  their  adventure, 
when  they  were  startled  at  the  appear- 
ance of  their  mother.  She  was  leanino-, 
stony  and  motionless,  with  fixed  eyes 
and  clasped  hands,  against  the  door- 
post, and  for  a  moment  the  sight  of  her 
darlings  did  not  seem  to  rouse  her. 
Then  springing  up  with  a  wild  cry,  she 
strained  them  to  her  heart,  covered 
them  with  kisses,  laughed  a  wild  laugh, 
broken  with  convulsive  sobs,  and  at  last 
fell  fainting  on  the  floor. 

The  children  knelt  beside  her,  and 
gradually  she  revived,  and  fell  into  a 
sleep.      But  every  now  and  then   she 


THE  BLACK  SHIP.  I3 

started  as  if  with  some  terrible  dream, 
and  murmured  in  her  sleep,  "  The  ship 
— the  Black  Ship;  not  now,  not  yet; 
take  me,  not  them  ;  or  take  us  all — take 
us  all ! " 

The  terrified  children  could  not  sleep, 
and  all  the  next  day  they  clung  close  to 
their  mother,  and  scarcely  spoke  a  word. 
In  the  evening,  however,  she  rallied,  and 
tried  to  speak  cheerfully  and  account 
for  her  alarm. 

"  You  were  late,  darlings;  and  I  knew 
you  were  by  the  sea — the  terrible  sea.^* 

But  the  children  could  not  be  com- 
forted. They  felt  the  weight  of  some 
vague  apprehension ;  they  could  not, 
be  tempted  to  leave  their  mother;  they 
crept  noiselessly  about,  watching  her 
movements,  until  at  last  one  night  they 


14  THE  BLACK  SHIP. 

whispered  together,  and  resolved  to  take 
courage  and  ask  their  mother  what  made 
her  dread  the  sea;  and  then  they  con- 
sulted long  as  to  the  best  way  of  intro- 
ducing the  forbidden  subject. 

The  next  evening,  as  they  sat  to- 
gether by  the  fireside,  Hope  began,  and 
forgetting  all  the  speeches  they  had  pre- 
pared, fixed  his  large  eyes  on  his  mother's, 
and  said  abruptly,  "Mother,  what  is 
there  terrible  in  the  sea?  ^' 

She  paused  a  moment,  her  face  grew 
deadly  pale,  and  her  lips  trembled. 

"  Children,  why  should  you  wish  to 
know  ?  You  will  learn  too  soon  with- 
out my  telling  you." 

"  O  mother,  tell  us,"  said  May.  "  We 
can  bear  anything  from  you.  Do  not 
let  anv  one  else  tell  us." 


THE  BLACK  SHIP.  I  5 

A  sudden  thought  seemed  to  flash 
across  her,  and  she  said^  "  Children, 
you  are  right." 

Then  folding  one  arm  around  Hope 
as  he  stood  by  her,  and  taking  May 
on  her  knee,  she  said,  "  It  is  not  the 
sea  I  dread;  it  is  the  Black  Ship.  That 
is  the  terrible  secret ;  and  it  is,  indeed, 
better  you  should  learn  it  from  my  lips 
than  learn  it  by  losing  me,  and  no  one 
be  left  to  tell  you  how.  My  children," 
she  continued,  making  a  great  effort  to 
speak  calmly,  "  this  is  the  one  sorrow 
of  our  country.  From  time  to  time  a 
Black  Ship,  without  sails  or  cars,  glides 
silently  to  our  shores,  and  anchors 
there.  A  dark,  veiled  Figure  lands  from 
it,  and  seizes  any  one  of  our  people 
whom    it    chooses,    without    violence, 


l6  THE  BLACK  SHIP. 

without  a  sound,  but  with  irresistible 
power,  and  quietly  leads  the  victim  away 
to  the  Ship,  which  immediately  glides 
away  again  from  our  coasts  as  swiftly 
and  noiselessly  as  it  came ;  but  no  one 
ever  sees  those  who  are  thus  borne  away 
any  more." 

"Whence  does  the  Ship  come, 
mother?"  asked  Hope,  after  a  long 
silence,  "and  whither  does  it  go?" 

"  No  one  knows,  my  child.  That  is 
the  terrible  thing  about  it.  There  is 
no  sound  nor  voice.  The  agonized 
cries  of  those  who  are  thus  bereaved 
avail  not  to  bring  one  word  of  reply 
from  those  lips,  or  to  raise  one  fold  of 
that  dark  veil.  If  we  only  knew,  we 
could  bear  it." 

"Have  you  ever  seen  It,  mother?** 


THE  BLACK  SHIP.  1 7 

asked  Hope,  determined  bravely  to 
plunge  to  the  bottom  of  the  terrible 
mystery,  while  May  could  only  cling 
round  her  mother's  neck  and  cry. 

"  I  have  seen  it  twice,"  she  replied, 
speaking  low  and  rapidly.  "  We  did 
not  always  live  here.  Your  father  was 
rich  and  a  man  of  rank,  and  loving  us 
most  dearly,  he  resolved  to  do  all  in  his 
power  to  keep  the  terrible  Form  away. 
For  this  end  he  built  that  castle  you 
have  often  seen  above  the  white  tower. 
It  is  far  above  the  sea;  the  rocks  are 
perpendicular;  it  is  built  of  solid  stone; 
the  doors  were  of  oak,  studded  with 
iron;  the  windows  barred  with  iron. 
No  one  was  ever  to  be  permitted  to  cross 
the  moat  without  being  strictly  scrutin- 
ized. The  gates  were  always  to  be  closed. 


l8  THE  BLACK  SHIP. 


When  it  was  finished  he  made  a  feast, 
and  after  it,  when  the  guests  had  left,  and 
every  bolt  was  drawn,  we  stood  at  the 
window  of  the  room  where  you  slept,  and 
looked  down  triumphantly  on  the  sea. 
A  little  sister  of  yours  was  sleeping  in 
my  arms.  In  the  bay  at  our  feet  was 
moored  the  Black  Ship.  Our  eyes 
seemed  fascinated  to  it,  and  we  could 
not  speak.  We  saw  the  Veiled  Figure 
descend  the  side,  and  slowly  scale  the 
precipice  beneath  us,  as  if  it  had  been 
a  road  made  for  it  to  tread.  It 
walked  over  the  waters  of  the  castle 
moat,  which  did  not  seem  to  wet  its 
feet.  It  stood  on  the  balcony  outside 
our  window,  and  we  could  not  stir.  It 
passed  through  the  iron  bars.  It  laid 
its  hand  on  my  sleeping  babe.     Your 


THE  BLACK  SHIP.  I9 

father's  strono-  arm  was  around  us  both, 
but  before  we  could  utter  a  crj',  the 
darling  had  glided  like  a  shadow  from 
our  embrace.  The  bright  face  of  our 
baby  was  hidden  from  us  under  the 
folds  of  that  impenetrable  veil.  We 
watched  the  terrible  Form  noiselessly 
descend  the  steep,  re-enter  the  ship,  and 
not  until  the  Black  Ship  was  already 
gliding  swiftly  out  of  sight  could  we 
overcome  the  terrible  fascination.  Then 
my  cries  of  agony  awoke  the  household, 
boats  were  manned  in  pursuit,  but  in  vain, 
in  vain — we  felt  it  was  in  vain.  We  never 
saw  the  babe  again.'^  She  spoke  with 
the  lanfruor  of  a  sorrow  which  had  been 
over^vhelmed  by  greater  sorrows  still. 

"  But  our  father?  "  asked  Hope. 

"  He  left  the  castle  the  next  day," 


20  THE  BLACK  SHIP. 

she  answered ;  '•  we  never  returned  to 
it.  He  said  the  strong  walls  only 
mocked  our  helplessness,  and  since  then 
the  castle  has  been  empty.  Birds  build 
their  nests  in  our  chambers,  wild  beasts 
make  their  lair  in  our  gardens,  the  iron 
bars  rust  on  the  open  doors ;  and  if  the 
Veiled  Figure  enters  again,  it  will  find 
no  prey." 

"  But  where  did  you  go?  " 

"  We  came  here.  Your  father  said 
he  would  dare  the  foe,  and,  since  no 
fortification  could  keep  it  out,  meet 
it  on  its  own  ground.  So  he  built 
this  cottage  close  to  the  sea,  and  here 
we  have  lived  ever  since.  I  was  con- 
tent to  remain  here,  because  I  thought 
we  might  avoid  seeing  any  one,  and 
keep  the  terrible  secret  from  you. 


THE  BLACK  SHIP.  21 

"  And  here,"  she  continued  with 
the  cahnness  of  despair,  "  one  morn- 
ing we  saw  the  Black  Ship  moored, 
and  your  father  went  to  meet  it.  I 
wept  and  chmg  to  him  to  keep  him 
back,  but  he  said,  '  It  shall  speak  to 
me.' 

"  The  Dark  Form  came  up,  a  black 
shadow  across  the  sunny  beach.  Your 
father  encountered  it  boldly,  and  said, 
'  Where  is  my  child  ? ' 

"  There  was  no  sound  in  reply.  For 
a  moment  there  seemed  to  be  a  struggle. 
I  rushed  towards  them,  but  the  terrible 
touch  was  on  your  father's  hand.  There 
seemed  no  violence,  no  chain  was  on  his 
arm — only  that  paralysing  touch.  He 
went  from  me  silent  and  helpless  as  the 
babe. 


22  THE  BLACK  SHIP. 

"  'Whither,  whither?'  I  cried;  'only 
tell  me  where  1 ' 

"  He  looked  back  once,  but  he  spoke 
to  me  no  more.  I  rushed  madly  into 
the  sea,  but  the  ship  was  gone  in  a 
minute,  and  your  voices,  your  baby 
voices,  called  me  back,  and  I  came." 

"  Is  there  no  help,  mother  ? "  said 
Hope,  at  last.  "Has  no  one  ever  tried  ? 
If  I  were  but  a  man  1  Oh,  surely  some 
help  could  be  found!  " 

"  So  thousands  have  thought,  tried, 
and  asked  in  vain.  Fleets  have  scoured 
the  seas,  but  none  ever  came  on  the 
Black  Ship's  track.  Have  you  seen  that 
line  of  surge  far  out  on  the  sea  ?  '* 

"  The  reef,  mother  ?  Yes ;  we  have 
ofteii  wondered  what  it  was." 

"  It  is  the  great  sea-wall  which  our 


THE  BLACK  SHIP.  23 

people  built  ages  since.  The  whole 
nation  combined  once  to  encircle  the 
island  with  a  gigantic  sea-wall  which 
no  ship  might  pass.  On  the  day  of  its 
completion  there  was  a  great  national 
festival  on  the  sea-shore.  But  at  noon- 
day,  as  they  danced  and  feasted,  one 
who  was  watching  saw  a  black  speck 
on  the  horizon.  The  festivities  were 
suspended,  and  the  people  gathered  on 
the  beach  to  look.  It  grew  larger  and 
darker — it  came  to  the  sea-wall — with- 
out a  moment's  pause  it  glided  through, 
and  the  multitude  could  gaze  no  longer. 
They  scattered  in  all  directions  to  their 
homes ;  and  before  morning  from  hun- 
dreds of  families  one  was  gone — princes, 
nobles,  peasants — one  sw^eeping  yet  ter- 
ribly discriminating  desolation.     But  m 


24  THE  BLACK  SHIP. 

the  sea-wall  not  the  smallest  breach 
could  be  found.  Since  then  it  has 
never  been  repaired,  and  the  waves  have 
worn  it  down  to  a  broken  reef,  over 
which  our  boats  pass  freely." 

Hope  was  silenced,  and  the  little 
family  sat  up  together  that  night.  They 
did  not  dare  to  separate,  even  to  their 
beds,  yet  before  long  the  children  were 
asleep. 

Sleep  revived  the  brother  and  sister ; 
and  by  the  evening  Hope's  ardent  heart 
had  found  another  point  to  rest  on. 

"  Mother,"  he  said,  "  if  we  could 
only  find  out  whence  the  Black  Ship 
comes,  we  might  be  comforted.  Per- 
haps it  comes  from  a  happy  place.  Can 
no  one  even  guess  ?" 

"  There    are    some   who    profess   to 


THE  BLACK  SHIP.  2$ 

know  something  of  it,"  she  replied; 
"  but  your  father  never  believed  them." 

"Who  are  they?"  asked  Hope. 

"  The  amulet-makers.  There  are  a 
band  of  men  in  the  White  Town,  and 
one  of  them  in  many  of  the  villages, 
who  profess  to  know  something  of  the 
country  from  which  the  Black  Ship 
comes,  and  who  sends  it.  But  they 
talk  very  mysteriously,  in  learned  words; 
and  I  do  not  understand  them.  Your 
father  said  it  was  all  a  deception ;  be- 
cause some  of  them  profess  to  make 
amulets  or  charms  which  keep  the 
Veiled  Form  away;  and  your  little  sister 
had  one  round  her  neck  when  she  was 
taken  from  us.  You  have  each  one, 
but  I  cannot  trust  it ;  and  I  never  could 
find   out  that  the  amulet-makers   had 


2,6  THE  BLACK  SHIP. 

anything  but  guesses  as  to  where  the 
ship  came  from ;  and  your  father  said 
we  could  guess  as  well  as  they.  There 
is  one  thing,"  she  added,  with  a  faint 
smile,  "  which  gives  me  more  comfort 
than  anything  they  ever  said.  When 
our  baby  was  taken  from  my  arms — 
when  she  felt  that  terrible  touch — she 
did  not  seem  to  be  at  all  afraid.  She 
looked  up  in  my  face,  and  then  at  the 
Veiled  Form,  and  stretched  out  her  baby 
arms  from  me  to  it,  and  smiled.  At 
first,  I  hated  to  think  of  that.  It  seemed 
as  if  some  cruel  charm  was  on  her  to 
win  even  her  heart  from  me;  but  often 
in  the  night,  in  my  dreams,  that  smile 
has  come  back  to  me,  like  a  promise; 
and  I  have  awaked,  comforted — I  hardly 
know  why." 


THE  BLACK  SHIP.  I'] 


"  Perhaps  they  arc  in  a  happy  place, 
mother,"  said  Httle  May. 

And  Hope  said  — "  Mother,  I  am 
going  to  question  the  amulet-makers  in 
the  White  Town."  And  his  mother 
suffered  him  to  go. 

In  two  days,  Hope  came  back.  But 
his  step  was  spiritless  and  slow,  and  his 
face  very  sad. 

"  Mother,"  he  said,  "  I  think  my 
father  was  right.  I  am  afraid  no  one 
knows  anything  about  the  country  from 
which  the  Black  Ship  comes.  At  first 
the  amulet-makers  promised  to  tell  me 
a  great  deal.  Some  of  them  told  me 
they  believed  it  was  a  great  king,  an 
enemy  of  our  race,  who  sent  the  ship  ; 
but  that  if  we  kept  certain  rules,  and 
put  on   a  certain  dress  they  would  sell 


THE  BLACK  SHIP. 


US,  or  give  them  certain  treasures  to 
throw  into  the  sea  when  the  Ship  ap- 
peared, they  would  watch  for  us,  and 
make  the  powers  beyond  the  sea  favour- 
able to  us.  But  when  I  came  to  the 
(question — how  they  knew  this  to  be 
true,  or  if  they  had  ever  had  any  mes- 
sage from  beyond  the  sea,  or  seen  any 
one  who  came  thence,  they  grew  silent, 
and  sometimes  angry,  and  told  me  I 
was  a  presumptuous  child.  There  was 
one  old  man,  however,  who  was  kind 
to  me ;  and  he  came  and  spoke  to  me 
alone,  and  said,  '  My  child,  be  happy 
to-day — to  be  good  is  to  be  happy. 
What  is  beyond  to-day,  or  beyond  the 
sea,  no  one  knows,  or  ever  can  know. 
Go  back  to  your  mother,  and  live  as 
before.'     So  I  came,"  concluded  Hope. 


THE  BLACK   SHIP.  2g 

"  But  it  can  never,  never  be  with  us 
again  as  before  we  knew," 

From  that  time  the  boy  seemed  to 
cease  to  be  a  child,  or  to  take  interest  ii^ 
any  childish  schemes.  He  was  gentle 
and  tender  as  his  father  could  have  been 
to  his  mother  and  to  May,  and  seemed 
to  take  on  himself  to  watch  over  and 
protect  them.  He  never  left  thern  out 
of  sight;  until,  one  day,  as  they  came,  in 
their  ramble  in  search  of  shell-fish,  on 
their  old  cave,  and  looked  once  more  at 
their  little  stores,  so  joyously  hoarded 
there.  May  suddenly  exclaimed,  "  What 
if  they  should  know  on  the  other  side 
of  the  mountains  I" 

The  thought  fl;ished  on  Hope  like  a 
breath  of  new  life;  and  from  that  day 
his  old  schemes  were  resumed,  but  witli 


3° 


THE  BLACK  SHIP. 


an  intensity  and  a  purpose  which  could 
not  be  quenched.  He  would  scale 
the  mountains,  to  see  if  any  tidings 
from  beyond  the  sea  had  reached  the 
land  across  the  mountains ! 

His  mother's  consent  was  gained; 
and  in  a  few  days,  spent  in  eager  pre- 
parations, Hope  was  to  start. 

But  before  those  days  were  ended, 
one  evening,  a  white-haired  old  man 
knocked  at  the  cottage  -  door.  He 
was  nearly  exhausted  with  travel,  his 
clothes  were  torn,  and  his  feet  bleed- 
ing. 

They  led  him  to  the  fire,  bathed  his 
feet,  and  set  food  before  him.  But 
before  he  would  touch  anything,  the 
old  man  said — 

"  I  have  tidino-s  for  you — olad  tidings." 


THE  BLACK  SHIP.  3I 


"  Do  you  come  from  across  the 
mountains?"  exclaimed  Hope,  starting 
to  his  feet. 

The  old  man  bowed  in  assent. 

"  I  come  from  across  the  mountains, 
and  I  bring  you  glad  tidings  from  be- 
yond the  sea." 

"Glad  tidings!"  they  all  exclaimed. 

"  Glad  tidings,  if  you  will  obey 
them,"  he  replied  ;  —  "  if  not,  the 
saddest  you  ever  heard.  It  is  not  an 
enemy  who  sends  the  Black  Ship,  but 
a  friend." 

Not  a  question,  scarcely  a  breath  in- 
terrupted him ;  and  he  continued,  in 
brief,  broken  sentences — 

"  It  is  our  King.  Our  island  belongs 
to  Him.  He  gave  it  us.  But,  long 
ago,  our  ])eople  rebelled  against  Him. 


32  THE  BLACK  SHIP. 

They  were  seduced  by  a  wicked  prince, 
His  deadly  enemy,  and,  alas!  ours.  Thev 
sent  the  King  a  defiance ;  they  defaced 
His  statues,  which  were  a  type  of  all 
beauty ;  they  broke  His  laws,  which  are 
the  unfolding  of  all  goodness.  He 
sent  ambassadors  to  reclaim  them  ;  He, 
who  could  have  crushed  the  revolt, 
and  destroyed  our  nation  with  one  of 
tJis  armies  in  a  day,  descended  from 
His  dignity,  and  stooped  to  entreat  our 
deluded  people  to  return  to  their  alle- 
giance. But  they  treated  His  conde- 
scension as  weakness.  They  defied  His 
ambassadors,  and  maltreated  them  and 
drove  them  from  the  island.  He  had 
warned  them  against  the  usurper,  and 
told  them  the  consequences  of  revolting; 
and  too  surely  they  have  been  fulfilled. 


THE  BLACK  SHIP.  33 

The  Black  Ship  is  the  punishment  in- 
flicted by  our  offended  Monarch ;  but 
those  who  return  to  His  allegiance  need 
not  dread  it." 

"  Some,  then,  have  submitted  to  the 
King?"  asked  Hope. 

"  Every  ambassador  He  sent  has  per- 
suaded some  to  recognise  the  King." 

"  Why  not  all  ? ''  asked  Hope.  "  If 
the  King  is  good  and  is  our  King,  and 
will  receive  us,  why  not  all  return?" 

"The  usurper  seduces  them  still," 
replied  the  old  man.  "  Many  hate  the 
King's  good  laws ;  many  take  pride  in 
what  they  call  their  independence;  most 
will  not  listen,  or  will  not  believe.  They 
mock  the  King's  messengers,  and  declare 
that  they  are  impostors,  that  their  mes- 
sages are  a  delusion,  and  some  even  per- 


34  THE  BLACK  SHIP. 

sist  in  declaring  that  there  is  no  King, 
and  no  country  beyond  the  sea." 

"  But  the  Black  Ship  is  not  a  delu- 
sion! "  said  Hope,  "  it  must  come  from 
some  land.  What  proof  have  these 
ambassadors  given?  Have  they  ever 
been  in  the  land  beyond  the  sea?'* 

"They  gave  many  proofs,  but  I  bring 
vou  better  news  than  this.  A  few  years 
since,  the  King's  Son  came  Himself. 
Many  of  us  have  seen  and  spoken  with 
F]im.  He  stayed  many  days.  He  spoke 
words  of  such  power,  and  in  tones  of 
such  tenderness  as  none  who  heard  can 
ever  forget.  We  could  trace  in  His  fea- 
tures the  lineaments  of  the  statues  we 
had  defaced.  Some  of  the  worst  rebels 
among  us  were  melted  to  repentance, 
and  fell  at  His  feet,  and  besought  His 


THE  BLACK  SHIP.  ^^ 

pardon.  I  was  one.  He  gave  us  not 
only  His  pardon,  but  His  friendship. 
But  His  enemies  prevailed.  Especially 
the  amulet-makers  organised  a  conspi- 
racy against  Him  ;  they  feared  for  their 
trade,  and  secretly  prepared  to  drive 
Him  from  the  island.  He  had  come 
alone,  for  He  came  not  to  compel  but  to 
win.  And  He  came  for  another  purpose, 
which,  until  He  was  gone,  we  could  not 
comprehend.  The  conspirators  triumph- 
ed. One  day  they  came  in  force  and 
seized  Him.  Alas,  abase  panic  seized  us 
who  loved  Him,  and  we  fled.  They  bound 
Him  with  thongs,  they  treated  Him  with 
the  most  barbarous  cruelty  and  the  bas- 
est indignity  and  drove  Him  to  the  sea. 
We  thought  a  fleet  and  an  army  would 
have  appeared  to  avenge  His   insulted 


^6  TIJK  ULACK  SHIP. 

majesty,  and  proclaim  him  Kijig  with 
power,  or  bear  Him  in  pomp  away;  but 
to  our  surprise  and  dismay  nothing 
came  for  Him  but  the  Black  Ship,  and 
the  Dark  Form  bore  Him  from  us,  as  if 
He  had  been  a  rebel  like  one  of  us.  He 
had  told  us  something  of  the  probabilitv 
of  this  before  it  happened,  but  we  could 
not  comprehend  what  He  meant.  Never 
were  days  of  such  sorrow  as  those  which 
passed  over  us  after  His  be'mg  taken  from 
us.  His  enemies  were  in  full  triumph; 
they  mocked  our  Prince's  claims,  they 
insulted  us,  they  threatened  us,  but  all 
they  could  say  or  do  was  nothing  in 
comparison  with  the  anguish  in  our 
hearts.  For  what  could  we  think  ?  He 
we  had  loved  and  trusted  was  ffonc, 
borne  off  in  triumph  by  the  vcrv  foe  He 


THE  BLACK   SHIP. 


came  to  deliver  us  from.  We  hid  our- 
selves in  caves  and  lonely  beaches  by  the 
sea,  and  recalled  to  each  other  His  pre- 
cious words,  and  gazed  out  over  the  sea 
with  a  vague  yearning,  which  was 
scarcely  hope,  and  yet  kept  us  lingering 
on  the  shore. 

On  the  third  morning,  in  the  gray 
lioht  of  early  dawn,  one  of  us  saw  Him 
on  the  shore — one  who  had  owed  Him 
everything,  and  loved  Him  most  de- 
votedly. She  called  us  to  come.  One 
by  one  we  gathered  round  Him.  Some 
of  us  could  scarcely  believe  our  senses 
for  joy.  But  it  was  Himself;  the  solid 
certainty  of  that  unutterable  joy  grew 
stronger.  And  then  He  told  us  wonders, 
how  He  suffered  all  this  for  us  —  had 
borne   this    indignity  and   captivity  in 


38  THE  BLACK  SHIP. 

obedience  to  His  Father's  will,  to  set  us 
free — had  gone  in  the  Black  Ship  itself 
to  the  heart  of  the  enemy's  country, 
and  alone  trodden  those  terrible  regions 
of  lawless  wickedness  to  which  he  seeks 
to  drag  his  deluded  victims,  and  alone 
vanquished  him  there.  He  stayed  with 
us  some  days,  and  talked  with  us  fa- 
miliarly, as  of  old ;  but  how  glorious 
His  conunonest  words  were — how  over- 
powering His  forgiving  looks — how  in- 
spiring His  firm  and  tender  tones,  I  can 
never  tell.  He  could  not  remain  with  us 
then.  He  said  we  must  be  His  messen- 
gers, and  win  back  His  rebels  to  allegi- 
ance; we  must  learn  to  be  brave,  to  speak 
and  suffer  for  Him,  and  to  act  as  men ;  and 
He  promised  to  come  again  one  day  with 
fleets  and  armies,  and  all  the  pomp  of  His 


THE  BLACK  SHIP. 


39 


Father's  kingdom.  But,  meantiine,  lie 
said  the  Black  Ship  should  never  more 
be  a  terror  to  any  of  us  who  loved  Him  ; 
for  He  himself  would  come  in  it  each 
time.  He  would  be  veiled,  so  that  none 
could  see  Him  but  the  one  He  came  for ; 
but  surely  as  the  Black  Ship  came,  in- 
stead of  the  Dark  Form,  He  would  come 
Himself  for  every  one  of  us,  and  bear  us 
home  to  His  Father's  house  to  abide  with 
Him,  and  with  Him  hereafter  to  return." 

There  was  a  breathless  silence,  broken 
only  by  the  mother's  sobs. 

She  clasped  her  hands,  and  mur- 
mured— 

"Then  it  was  He — it  was  surely  He 
himself  who  came  and  took  my  babe. 
No  wonder  my  darling  smiled,  and  was 
willino;  to  o-q." 


40  THE  BLACK  SHIP. 

The  mother  and  the  children  that 
very  evening  received  from  the  stranger 
the  medal  which  was  worn  by  all  those 
who  returned  to  their  allegiance.  It  was 
a  Black  Ship,  surrounded  with  rays  of 
glory,  and  behind  it  the  towers  of  a  city. 

Never  were  a  happier  company  than 
the  four  who  gathered  round  the  cot- 
tage table  that  evening.  They  were  too 
happy,  and  had  too  much  to  ask,  to 
sleep,  and  far  into  the  night  the  ques- 
tions and  answers  continued,  every  re- 
ply of  the  old  man's  only  revealing  some 
fresh  endearing  excellence  in  the  King 
and  the  King's  Son,  until  they  longed 
for  the  Black  Ship  to  come  and  fetch 
them  home. 

"  If  onlv,"  said  little  May,  "  it  would 
fetch  us  all  at  once  !  " 


THE  BLACK  SHIP.  4I 

"That  the  King  will  do  when  He 
comes  with  His  armies  in  the  day  of  His 
trim-nph.  Till  then,  my  child,  this  is 
the  one  only  sorrow  connected  with  the 
Black  Ship  for  those  who  love  the  King. 
We  go  one  by  one,  and  blessed  as  it  is 
for  the  one  who  goes,  it  must  be  sad 
sometimes  for  those  who  are  left." 

"  Why  do  not  those  who  go  to  Him 
ask  Him  to  come  quickly  ?"  asked  Hope. 
"They  do,"  replied  the  old  man. 
"  '  Come  quickly '  is  the  entreaty  of  all 
who  love  Him  here  and  beyond  the  sea; 
but  His  time  is  best.  And,  meantime, 
have  we  forgotten  the  multitudes  who 
arc  still  deceived  by  the  Jisurper,  to 
whom  the  Black  Ship  is  still  a  horrible 
end  of  all  things,  and  the  Veiled  Form 
of  the  Kino;  of  Terrors  ?  " 


43  THE  BLACK  SHIP. 

Hope  rose  and  stood  before  the  old 
man. 

"Mother,"  he  said,  "it  is  for  this  we 
must  Uve.  Think  of  the  desolate  hearts 
in  the  homes  around  us.  Think  of  the 
thousands  who  know  not  our  blessed 
secret  in  the  White  Town." 

The  old  man  rose  and  laid  his  hand 
on  Hope's  head. 

"My  King!"  he  said,  "when  wilt 
Thou  come  for  me?  Is  not  my  work 
done  ?  Will  not  this  youthful  voice 
speak  for  Thee  here  as  my  quivering 
tones  no  longer  can  ?  Wilt  Thou  not 
come  ?  I  have  many  dear  ones  with 
Thee ;  but  when  Thou  wilt  is  best." 

Then  he  persuaded  them  all  to  lie 
down  to  rest,  and  he  himself  composed 
himself  quietly  to  sleep. 


THE  BLACK  SHIP.  43 


But  in  the  night  a  wondrous  light  filled 
the  room — a  wondrous  light  and  frag- 
rance. The  inother  woke,  and  the  chil- 
dren, and  they  saw  the  old  man  standing, 
gazing  towards  the  door,  which  was  open. 
There  stood  a  Veiled  Form,  dark  to  the 
mother's  eyes  as  the  dreaded  form  she 
knew  too  well ;  yet  its  presence  filled  the 
room  with  the  light  as  of  a  rosy  dawn, 
and  the  fragrance  as  of  spring  fl,owers. 
The  old  man's  hair  was  silvery,  and  his 
form  tottering  as  ever,  but  in  his  face 
there  was  the  beauty  of  youth,  and  in 
his  eyes  the  rapture  of  joy. 

"  Farewell,  my  friends,'^  he  said ; 
"your  dav  ol  joy  will  come  like  this  o\ 
mine.  Tliou  art  come  for  me  at  last 
— Thou  thyself.  I  see  Thy  face,  I 
hear  Thy  voice  ;  I  come — it  is  Thou." 


44  THE  BLACK  SHIP. 

A  hand  was  laid  tenderly  on  his 
hand,  and  they  walked  away  together 
into  the  night.  But  as  the  mother  and 
children  looked  after  him  from  the  door, 
they  saw  the  Black  Ship,  only  at  its 
prow  was  a  star,  and  as  it  passed 
away,  the  mother,  and  Hope,  and  May 
thought  it  left  a  track  of  light  upon  the 
sea. 

The  three  had  henceforth  enough  to 
live  and  suffer  for.  To  the  lonely  fish- 
ermen's huts  went  May  and  her  mother, 
into  the  White  Town  went  Hope,  and 
everywhere  they  bore  their  tidings  of 
joy.  They  had  much  to  suffer,  and 
many  mocked,  and  against  them  also 
the  amulet-makers  combined,  and  would 
notlisten.  But  some  did  listen,  and 
believe,  and  love,   and  to  such,   as  tc 


THE  BLACK  SHIP.  45 

the  mother,  and  Hope,  and  May,  the 
Black  Ship,  instead  of  a  phantom  of 
terror,  became  a  messenger  of  surpass- 
ing joy. 


^Ije  Euincti  temple* 


^.\)Z  Euincfi  ^Kiiiple. 


HE  Temple  was  in  ruins,  and 
the  Priestess  sat,  a  captive 
in  chains,  among  its  fallen 
and  scattered  fragments.  It  had  been 
a  temple  of  the  most  ancient  form,  open 
to  the  sky,  beautiful  beyond  any  temple 
upon  earth,  beautiful  and  sacred,  and 
some  remnants  of  its  beauty  hung  about 
it  still — fragments  of  exquisite  carvings 
and  broken  shafts  of  graceful  columns. 
But  everything  was  shattered  and  out 
of  place,  the  window  tracery  shivered 
in  a  thousand  fragments  and  strewn  on 

D 


THE  RUINED  TEMPLE. 


the  ground,  columns  prostrate^  sacred 
vessels  lying  rusted  among  the  weed-;, 
the  pure  spring  which  had  gushed  from 
beneath  the  altar  choked  up  and  drv, 
and  instruments  of  sacred  music  mute 
and  broken  on.  the  ground. 

On  the  walls  in  some  places  were  the 
traces  of  violence,  but  it  was  remarkable 
that  they  seemed  to  have  been  assaulted 
only  from  within.  Indeed,  the  temple 
had  been  a  fortress,  so  impregnably  situ- 
ated and  built  that  except  from  within 
not  one  stone  could  ever  have  been  dis- 
placed. 

This  was,  in  fact,  the  saddest  part  of 
its  history.  The  temple  had  been  dese- 
crated before  it  had  been  ruined,  and  in 
its  ruin  it  was  a  temple  still,  but,  alas! 
no    lonjrer    sacred    to    Him    in    whose 


THE  RUINED  TEMPLE.  51 

honour  it  had  been  reared.  Many 
senseless  or  loathsome  idol-images  were 
carved  on  the  walls,  strangely  contrast- 
ing, in  their  shapalessncss  or  deformity, 
with  the  symmetry  of  every  fragment 
of  the  original  structure.  On  the  broken 
altar  in  the  centre  stood  an  image  of 
the  Priestess  herself.  This  was  the  ear- 
liest idol  which  had  entered  there^  and 
with  the  entrance  of  this  the  ruin  had 
begun.  The  Enemy  who  had,  with 
subtle  flatteries,  introduced  this  idol 
had  ever  since  had  access  to  the  temple, 
and  step  by  step  the  Priestess  had 
sunk  beneath  his  power.  He  had 
led  her  into  wild  orgies,  in  which  she 
herself  had  defaced  the  delicate  tracjiy 
and  torn  down  the  walls;  and  when 
she  awoke  from  the  frenzy  and  wept, 


THE  RUINED  TEMPLE. 


as  sometimes  she  would,  he  silenced  her 
cries  with  blows  or  with  mocking  threats 
of  the  vengeance  of  Him  to  whom  the 
temple  had  been  consecrated.  Some- 
times, however,  she  woke  to  a  moment's 
full  consciousness  of  the  desolation 
around  her,  and  then  she  would  wail 
and  lament  until  he  seemed  to  fear  some 
unseen  Friend  would  hear;  and  at  such 
seasons  he  grew  more  gentle,  and  re- 
newed the  old  persuasions  and  flatteries 
by  which  he  had  misled  her  first.  He 
would  even  encourage  her  at  times,  when 
all  other  methods  failed,  to  try  and  col- 
lect the  scattered  stones,  and  repair  the 
breaches  in  the  shattered  walls  and  re- 
string  the  broken  harp,  for  he  knew  well 
her  puny  cfl'orts  must  fail,  and  that  no 
hands  but  those  of  the   builder  could 


THE  RUINED  TEMPLE. 


53 


ever  restore  the  ruin  she  had  wrousrht. 
So,  after  a  few  faint  endeavours,  she,  as 
he  expected,  would  give  up  in  despair, 
and  sit  eowering  hopelessly  on  the 
ground  afraid  of  him,  afraid  of  Him 
whose  priestess  she  was,  afraid  of  her 
own  voiee. 

In  sueh  bitter  hours  he  would  again 
grow  bold,  and  mock  her  with  the  me- 
mory of  the  past,  until  the  spirit  of  indig- 
nant resistance  seemed  roused  within  her, 
when,  once  more  softening  his  tone,  he 
would  point  her  with  flattering  words  to 
her  own  image  on  the  broken  altar.  He 
would  shew  her  the  beauty  still  linger- 
ins;  in  its  marred  and  weather-worn 
features,  and  help  her  to  decorate  it 
with  gay  colours  and  tinsel  ornaments, 
placing  in  her  hands  the  golden  censer, 


54  THE  RUINED  TEMPLE. 

with  the  sweet  incense  which  had  been 
made  in  happier  days  for  far  other  uses ; 
and  she  would  wave  the  fragrant  com- 
pound before  the  idol  image  of  herself. 
But  with  the  pure  spices  which  made  it 
sweet,  the  enemy  had  mixed  a  narcotic 
poison,  and  as  she  languidly  swung  the 
censer  to  and  fro,  her  brain  would  be- 
come intoxicated  with  the  voluptuous 
sweetness,  until,  in  a  dream  of  vain  de- 
light, she  would  fall  asleep,  and  forget 
all  her  miseries ;  and  ever,  as  she  slept, 
he  would  rivet  faster  the  chain  which, 
unperceived  by  her,  was  being  bound 
around  her,  every  year  making  her 
range  of  action  narrower  and  her 
movements  less  free. 

Wild  beasts,  also,  made  their  lair  in 
the  desolate  temple-chambers,  prowling 


THE  RUINED  TEMPLE. 


55 


in  and  out  where  formerly  meek  and 
heavenly  beings  had  ministered,  and 
making  the  shattered  walls  eeho  with 
their  loud  howls  and  sullen  roarings, 
where  once  had  sounded  strains  of  pure 
and  joyous  music. 

Thus  day  by  day  the  ruin  spread,  and 
the  desolation  and  desecration  became 
more  complete. 

But  it  happened  one  spring  that  two 
little  sino;in<r-birds  came  back  from  the 
sunny  clime  where  they  had  wintered, 
and  began  building  their  nest  above  the 
ancient  altar.  There  was  somethins;  in 
the  spring-time  which  often  brought 
tears  to  the  eyes  of  the  fallen  priestess, 
she  scarcely  knew  whv.  The  world 
seemed  then  like  one  happy  temple  full 
of  thankful  songs;  and  as,  day  by  day, 


^6  THE  RUINED  TEMPLE. 

the  sun  repaired  the  ruins  of"  winter,  and 
the  choral  services  of  the  woods  took  a 
fuller  tone,  on  her  heart  there  fell  the 
mournful  sense  of  the  ruins  around  her, 
which  no  spring-tide  could  restore.  Yet 
something  of  a  softer  feeling,  a  melan- 
choly v/hich  breathed  of  hope,  stole  over 
her,  and  she  watched  those  two  happy 
birds  building  their  nest,  and  warbling 
as  they  worked. 

At  last,  the  nest  was  finished,  the 
happy  mother -bird  sat  on  her  eggs, 
and  the  pair  had  much  leisure  for  con- 
fidential conversation. 

"How  desolate  this  place  is,"  said 
the  mother-bird. 

"  And  it  was  once  so  beautiful,"  re- 
plied her  mate. 

"Why  is  it  not  rebuilt?"'  she  asked. 


THE  UUINED  TEMPLE.  ^'] 

"  None  can  rebuild  but  the  hand  that 
built,"  was  the  mysterious  reply. 

"But  would  not  the  architect  come 
if"  asked  ?  He  is  so  good.  Was  it  not 
he  who  taught  us  to  build  our  nest ; 
and  I  am  sure  nothing  can  be  better 
done  than  that." 

"  That  is  the  difficulty,"  was  the  reply. 
"  The  priestess  does  not  know  he  is  so 
good,  and  is  afraid  to  utter  his  name.  If 
she  only  called  him,  he  would  come." 

"  Is  he  near  enough  ? " 

"  He  is  always  near." 

"Are  you  sure?"  said  the  mother- 
bird.     "  What  can  we  do  to  help  her." 

"  I  do  not  know,"  replied  the  mate, 
"  except  it  is  to  sing  his  praise.  Perhaps 
she  may  listen,  and  understand  one  day 
how  good  he  is." 


58  THE  RUINKD  TEMPLE. 

So  all  the  spring  the  little  happy 
creatures  chirped  and  sang,  until  the 
nestlings  were  fledged,  and  the  whole 
family  flew  away. 

But  their  songs  had  penetrated  deep 
into  the  priestess'  heart.  And  one 
night,  when  the  Enemy  was  absent,  and 
the  wild  beasts  prowling  far  away,  she 
threw  herself  on  the  earth  before  her 
desecrated  altar,  and  lamented  and  wept. 
But  for  the  first  time  her  lamentations, 
instead  of  solitary,  hopeless  wailings, 
echoing  back  from  the  ruined  walls,  be- 
came a  broken  cry  for  help. 

"  Thou,  if  thou  art  indeed  so  good — 
if  thou  art  indeed  near,  come  and  help 
me,"  she  sobbed ;  "  repair  my  ruins, 
and  save  me.'^ 

And  for  the  first  time,  as  she  wept 


THE  RUINED  TEMPLE.  59 


and  implored,  she  felt  the  weight  of  her 
fetters  binding  hand  and  foot,  and,  clasp- 
ing her  chained  hands,  she  cried  more 
earnestly,  "  Come  and  set  me  free!" 

And  before  tlie  day  dawned  a  voice 
came  softly  through  the  silence — 

"  I  will  come." 

But  with  the  morning  light  how- 
bitter  was  the  sight  which  burst  on  her 
aching  eyes  !  All  had  been  as  desolate 
Ions:  before  :  but  she  had  never  seen  it  as 
she  saw  it  now.  Noisome  beasts,  which 
prowled  fearlessly  around  her;  skulls 
and  ghastlv  skeletons  of  their  murdered 
prey  strewn  about;  on  the  ground  the 
broken,  rusted  harp ;  on  her  hands  the 
heavy  chain;  and,  worse  than  all,  the 
door  she  had  opened  to  the  Enemy  ever 
open,  and  inviting  his  approach. 


6o  THE  RUINED  TEMPLE. 

Too  surely  he  came.  He  mocked 
her  hope  until  it  appeared  baseless  as  a 
dream ;  and  nothing  seemed  real,  but 
the  ruin  to  which  he  scornfully  directed 
her  gaze,  and  the  chain  which  now,  for 
the  first  time  without  concealment,  he 
held  up  triumphantly,  dragging  her  by  it 
to  every  corner  of  the  polluted  and  ruined 
temple,  to  shew  her  how  complete  and 
hopeless  the  ruin  was.  Then  drawing 
the  links  tighter  than  before,  so  that 
they  galled  and  wounded  her  wrists,  he 
led  her  to  the  image  of  herself,  which 
he  had  adorned,  and  painted,  and  so 
often  flattered.  He  dragged  off  the 
tinsel  ornaments,  and  effaced  the  delu- 
sive colourino;,  and  left  her,  at  last,  face 
to  face  with  the  defaced  and  broken 
idol,  saying — 


THE  RUINED  TEMPLE. 


Black  Ship. 


p.  CI 


THE  RUINED  TEMPLE.  6l 

"This  is  the  worship  you  yourself 
have  chosen.  Pursue  it  still.  There  is 
no  other  for  you." 

She  could  not  bear  to  gaze  on  it ; 
and  as  he  went  she  fell  prostrate  on  the 
altar  steps,  and  hid  her  face  on  the 
stones.  Yet  still,  though  with  but  a 
feeble  hope,  she  sobbed  out — 

"If  thou  art  good  —  if  thou  canst 
help  me,  come, — oh,  come,  and  set 
me  free!" 

Weariness  at  last  brought  sleep,  and 
in  her  dreams  she  saw  a  lovclv  vision  of 
the  temple  as  it  once  had  been.  White 
columns  gleamed,  sweet  and  solemn 
music  sounded,  and  she  herself  minis- 
tered in  white  robes  at  the  altar,  before 
a  Radiant  Form,  on  which  she  could 
scarcely  for  a  moment  gaze. 


62  THE  RUINED  TEMPLE. 

The  awaking  from  this  dream  to  the 
desolation  around  her  was  more  terrible 
than  all  she  had  felt  before.  It  must 
have  bereft  her  of  reason,  but  for  the 
echo  of  three  cheering  words,  which 
seemed  to  have  awakened  her — "  I  will 
come." 

The  next  day,  with  the  light  of  that 
radiant  vision  on  her  heart,  she  dragged 
her  fettered  limbs  to  the  altar,  and 
strove  with  her  feeble  and  trembling 
hands  to  tear  that  marred  imao;e  from 
the  shrine.  But  in  vain.  It  was  too 
firmly  imbedded  there ;  and  she  could 
only  turn  her  face  from  it,  and  weep, 
and  cry  for  help.  And  before  the 
next  morning's  dawn  help  came.  In 
the  night,  a  heavenly  visitant  de- 
scended ;  and  with  human  words,  in  a 


THE  RUINED  TEMPLE.  6^ 

language  she  had  not  spoken  for  years, 
but  every  word  of  which  melted  her 
heart  like  the  accents  of  her  mother- 
tongue,  he  touched  her  chains,  and  they 
fell  off  j  he  spoke,  and  the  wild  beasts 
fled,  howling;  he  touched  her  broken 
harp,  and  it  was  restrung  and  timed  ; 
he  touched  the  dry  and  choked-up 
channel  of  the  sacred  spring,  and  it 
welled  forth  pure  and  fresh  from  be- 
neath the  altar;  he  touched  the  idol  on 
the  altar,  and  it  fell,  and  in  its  stead 
shone  that  wondrous  Radiance  which 
she  had  seen  in  her  dream;  then  he 
poured  on  her  head  the  fragrant  oil  of 
consecration,  and  clothed  her  in  a  white 
vestal  priestly  garment,  and  placed  the 
restrung  harp  in  her  hand,  and  rose 
a<x;iin  to  heaven. 


64  THE  RUINED  TEMPLE. 

At  first  her  joy  knew  no  measure. 
She  gazed  on  the  sacred  shrine,  and  in 
its  glory  at  times  she  perceived  the 
Hneaments  of  the  form  of  Him  who  had 
done  all  this  for  her.  She  touched  her 
harp,  and  the  sweet  strings  responded 
as  if  they  knew  her  hand ;  she  sang  holy 
songs  in  that  old,  long-forgotten,  yet 
familiar  tongue,  so  heavenly  and  happy 
that  the  wild  beasts  would  not  venture 
near,  and  the  morning-birds  were  silent 
to  listen.  She  bathed  in  the  newlv- 
opencd  fountain  and  drank  of  it,  and 
as  she  drank  her  strength  and  her  youth 
came  back. 

For  a  time  her  joy  was  without  cloud 
or  measure;  but  as  the  daylight  return- 
ed, the  desolation  of  the  ruined  temple 
struck  sadly  on  her  heart.    It  was  indeed 


THE  RUINED  TEMPLE.  65 

a  sacred  place  once  more,  and  she  its 
consecrated  priestess ;  but  was  this  ruin 
never  to  be  repaired  ? 

She  began  to  cleanse  the  sacred  ves- 
sels and  to  sweep  the  earth  of  all  the 
refuse  and  dry  bones  which  had  been 
gathered  there;  and  then,  with  her  re- 
newed strength,  she  set  herself  to  collect 
the  fallen  fragments  of  the  columns, 
and  tried  to  piece  together  the  shattered 
tracery  and  the  delicate  carvings  of 
flower  and  foliage.  But  it  was  in  vain. 
She  could  indeed  bring  the  scattered 
fragments  together  and  see  what  they 
had  been,  but  she  could  not  join  them, 
or  replace  one  prostrate  shaft  or  capital ; 
and  as  she  sat  down  mournfully  be- 
fore her  shrine,  tears  dimmed  her  eyes, 
so  that  she  could  scarcely  see  the  Radi- 


66  THE  RUINED  TEMPLE. 


ance  there,  and,  falling  on  her  harp- 
strings,  would  have  rusted  them  and 
marred  their  sweetness;  whilst  in  the 
silence  a  voice,  too  long  and  bitterly 
familiar,  was  heard  at  the  door.  Turn- 
ing round,  she  perceived  the  form  of  the 
Enemy  there,  whilst  behind  him  glared 
fierce  and  hungry  eyes,  and  in  her  terror 
the  harp  almost  fell  from  her  hands. 

But  she  threw  herself  on  her  knees 
before  the  altar,  pressed  the  harp  con- 
vulsively to  her  heart,  and  cried,  "  Will 
these  ruins  never  be  repaired,  these 
doors  never  closed  against  my  enemy 
and  thine?"  The  pressure  of  her 
trembling  fingers  drew  forth  some 
plaintive  strains,  like  the  wind  on 
JEolian  strings;  but  low  and  plaintive 
as  they  were,  the  enemy  disappeared,  and 


THE  RUINED  TEMPLE.  G"] 

the  wild  beasts  fled  howling  from  theni. 
Then  she  began  to  perceive  the  power 
of  her  harp,  and  drew  from  it  a  song  of 
joy  and  triumph ;  and  as  she  still  gazed 
on  the  radiant  shrine  a  veil  seemed  to  be 
withdrawn  from  it,  and  she  perceived 
that  it  was  a  window,  so  that  the  light 
streamed  through  it,  not  from  it.  Won- 
dering she  gazed,  until,  penetrating  fur- 
ther and  further  through  the  light,  she 
saw  in  the  depths  of  heaven  a  Temple 
like  her  own,  only  perfect,  glorious  be- 
vond  comparison,  and  full; — full  of  wor- 
shippers robed  and  singing  like  herself, 
and  full  of  that  wondrous  radiance 
which  streamed  from  the  heavenly  form 
she  had  seen.  She  laid  her  harp  upon 
the  altar,  and  to  her  surprise  the 
strings  began  to  quiver  of  their  own 


68  THE  RUINED  TEMPLE. 

accord.  An  electric  current  united  them 
to  the  harps  in  the  heavenly  teinpie, 
and  they  vibrated  in  exquisite  har- 
monies the  echo  of  the  harmonies 
above. 

And  with  the  heavenly  strains  came 
a  voice  divine  and  human,  mighty  as 
the  sound  of  many  waters,  yet  soft  and 
near  as  a  whisper  in  her  ear : — 

"  Here  all  ruins  are  repaired,  the 
enemy  cannot  enter  here,  but  here  thou 
shalt  dwell  for  ever." 

And  softly  floated  down  these  other 
words : — 

"  For  we  know  that  if  our  earthly 
house  of  this  tabernacle  were  dissolved, 
we  have  a  building  of  God,  an  house 
not  made  with  hands,  eternal  in  the 
heavens." 


m)t  letoel  oe  tljc  €)rt!cc  of  tlje 


'QTlje  3!ctoel  of  tljc  €)rDec  of  dje 


wislXCE  on  the  sea-shore,  in  a 
^°J|  land  a  long  way  off,  I  met  an 
"*  "^^  old  man  dressed  as  a  galley- 
slave,  and  toiling  at  convicts'  work,  with 
a  heavy  chain  around  one  of  his  arms; 
but  his  face  and  bearing  were  stamped 
with  the  truest  nobility.  I  felt  sure  he 
must  be  a  victim  of  some  political  cabal, 
and  not  a  criminal,  for  not  a  trace  of 
crime  or  remorse  debased  that  calm  brow 
and  those  clear,  honest  eyes.  This 
might  not  have  struck  me  as  remark- 


72    THE  JEWEL  OF  THE  ORDER 

able,  since  such  unmerited  sufferings 
were  but  too  common  in  that  country. 
What  arrested  my  attention  was  the 
expression  ot"  unfeigned  and  lofty  joj 
which  irradiated  his  aged  counten- 
ance. 

In  the  interval  of  noonday  rest 
allowed  him,  as  well  as  the  other  con- 
victs, I  sate  down  beside  him  and 
entered  into  conversation  with  him.  T 
found  he  w'as  an  old  soldier;  and  at 
length  1  was  encouraged  by  his  frank- 
ness to  inquire  the  cause  of  the  strange 
contrast  between  his  expression  and  his 
circumstances. 

The  veteran  lifted  his  cap,  and  said 
mysteriously,  "  The  King  shall  enjoy 
his  own  again.  The  spring  will  come, 
and  with  it  the  violets." 


OF  THE  KING  S  OWN.  73 

The  thought  struck  me  that  some 
harmless  and  happy  hisanity  had 
risen,  hke  a  soft  mist,  to  veil  from 
him  his  miserable  lot ;  and,  follow- 
ing his  train  of  thought,  I  said,  "  You 
wait  for  a  king,  and  hope  cheers 
you.  Yet  you  must  have  waited 
long ;  and  hope  deferred  makcth  the 
heart  sick." 

"  The  uncertainty  of  hope,"  he  re- 
plied, "  often  makes  the  heart  sick  with 
fear  of  disappointment,  but  my  hope  is 
sure,  and  every  day  of  delay  certainly 
brings  me  nearer  to  it.  Every  night, 
as  I  look  out  from  my  convict's  cell 
over  the  sea,  before  I  lie  down  to  sleep, 
I  think  before  to-morrow  the  white 
?ails  of  his  fleet  may  stud  the  blue 
waters — for  he  will  not  return  alone ; 


74         THE  JEWEL  OF  THE  ORDER 

and  when  morning  dawns  gray  across 
the  bare  horizon,  I  am  not  cast  down, 
because  I  know  the  morning  we  wait 
for  will  surely  come  at  last." 

"  But,'^  I  said,  reverently,  and  half 
hesitating  to  disturb  his  happy  dream, 
"  when  that  morning  dawns  will  you 
still  be  h(^rc  r '' 

"  Here  or  there,"  he  answered,  so- 
lemnly. "  Either  with  the  few  who 
look  for  him  here,  or  with  the  countless 
multitudes  who  will  accompany  him 
thence.'^ 

Knowing;  how  such  le2;ends  of  ihc 
return  of  exiled  princes  linger  in  the 
hearts  of  a  nation,  and  wondering 
whether  the  old  man  spoke  from  the 
delusion  of  his  own  peculiar  madness  or 
of  a  tradition  current  among  his  people, 


OF  THE  KING  S  OWX.  75 

I  said,  "  Your  words  arc  stvan(;e  lo  n;e. 
Tell  me  the  history."^ 

"  After  the  great  battle/'  the  old 
soldier  replied,  a  smile  bright  as  a 
child's,  yet  tender  as  tears,  lighting  up 
his  whole  countenance — "  after  the  last 
great  battle  the  King,  the  true  King, 
our  own  King,  has  never  been  seen 
publicly  in  our  country.  They  wounded 
him,  and  left  him  for  dead  on  the  field 
— they  had  wounded  his  heart  to  the 
core.  Traitors  were  amongst  them  ;  it 
was  not  only  an  open  enemy  that  did 
him  this  dishonour.  But  they  were 
mistaken;  he  is  not  dead.  We  who 
loved  him  know.  We  bore  him 
secretly  from  the  field.  He  lingered  a 
few  days  amongst  us  after  his  woimds 
had  healed,  in  disguise  ;  but  although  his 


76         THE  JEWEL  OF  THE  ORDER 

loyal  state  was  hidden  for  a  time,  we 
wlio  "knew  his  voice,  could  tell  him 
blindfold  from  a  million;  and  since  he 
left  us,  his  faithful  adherents,  who  be- 
fore his  departure  could  be  counted  by 
tens,  have  increased  to  thousands." 

"  An  unusual  fortune,"  I  remarked, 
"  for  a  cause  whose  last  effort  seems 
generally  to  have  been  considered  a  de- 
feat, and  whose  leader  has  apparently 
abandoned  it." 

"  There  are  many  reasons,"  said  the 
old  man,  "  why  it  should  be  so,  and 
among  the  chief  of  these  is  this  one. 
When  our  Prince  left  us,  he  gave  to 
each  of  his  adherents  a  precious  gift  as 
a  token  of  his  love,  and  a  sign  by  which 
we  may  know  each  other." 

As  he  spoke  he  drew  aside  his  poor 


OF  THE  KING  S  OWN, 


garment,  and  on  his  breast  there 
sparkled  a  gem  more  brilliant  than  any 
star  or  decoration  I  had  ever  seen. 

"  This  is  the  star  of  the  King's  own 
order,"  he  said ;  and  as  I  looked  at  it 
a  wonderful  transformation  seemed  to 
have  taken  place  in  the  old  man's  dress. 
His  poor  convict's  garb  seemed  meta- 
morphosed into  the  richest  robes,  such 
as  princes  wore  in  that  southern  land, 
of  the  costliest  materials,  and  all  of  a 
glistening  white,  at  once  royal  and 
bridal,  whilst  his  chain  glittered  like  a 
jewelled  bracelet.  The  veteran  smiled 
at  my  surprise,  and  unclasping  his 
jewel,  bound  it  on  his  brow.  In- 
stantly the  same  magical  change  passed 
over  his  face.  Noble  as  it  was  before, 
his  countenance  now  shone  as  if  it  had 


yS         THE  JEWEL  OF  THE  ORDER 

been  the  face  of  an  angel.  Every  trace 
of  care  or  age  was  effaced,  the  eyes 
shone  under  the  cahn,  nnfurrowed  brow 
with  the  sparkle  of  early  youth,  and 
nothino;  was  left  to  indicate  acje  but  a 
depth  in  the  glance  and  a  history  in 
the  expression,  which  youth  cannot 
have. 

"But,"  I  said,  "surely  your  ene- 
mies must  seek  to  rob  you  of  such  a 
treasure  ? " 

"Try,"  he  replied,  "  if  you  can  take 
it  from  me." 

I  endeavoured  gently  to  detach  the 
jewel  from  his  brow,  but  my  fingers  had 
scarcely  touched  it  when  it  sprang  up 
like  glittering  drops  from  a  fountain, 
and  was  gone,  yet  leaving  the  glory  on 
the  old  man's  face. 


OF  THE  KING  S  OWN.  79 

He  smiled,  and  observed  quietiv, 
"  Our  jewel  no  man  taketh  from  us." 

Then,  again  unclasping  the  fillet 
which  had  bound  it  round  his  brow, 
the  magic  gem  reappeared  in  his  hand. 

It  was  mid-day,  and  the  usual  fare 
of  the  convicts  was  brought  to  him — 
scanty  and  coarse  fare,  with  bad  water. 
He  humbly  and  thankfully  partook  of 
the  poor  food,  but  poured  out  the  con- 
tents of  the  cup  on  the  ground. 

"  The  water  of  this  land  is  bad,^^  he 
said.  -'The  people  render  it  palatable 
by  mixing  it  with  a  fiery  stimulant, 
which,  aliis!  only  Increases  their  thirst, 
so  that  they  ever  thirst  again ;  but  we 
do  not  need  this." 

Then  gently  laying  his  finger  on  the 
gem,  it  expanded,  like  a  lilv-bell  in  the 


So    THE  JEWEL  OF  THE  ORDER 


sun,  into  a  crystal  vase,  and  in  it 
bubbled  up  a  miniature  fountain  of 
pure,  sparkling  water. 

"  In  us  a  well  of  water  springing  up," 
he  murmured,  as  if  to  himself,  as  he 
drank  and  was  refreshed ;  and  touching 
the  vase  again,  it  folded  up,  like  a  con- 
volvulus going  to  sleep  when  the  sun 
sets. 

I  wondered  he  had  not  had  the  cour- 
tesy to  offer  me  a  draught.  He  read 
my  thoughts,  and  said,  "  This  water  is 
untransferable.  Each  of  us  must  have 
his  own  jewel .^' 

"Then,"  I  replied,  "if  your  Prince 
left  those  jewels  to  you  at  his  departure, 
and  has  not  returned  since,  how  can  his 
followers  have  increased,  if  tb's  token  is 
essential  to  them,  and,  indeed,  as  you 


THE  JEWFX  OF  THE  ORDER  OF  THE  KING'S  OWN. 
Black  Ship.  p.  81. 


OF  THE  KING'S  OWN.  8l 


iutiinated,  an  inducement  to  many  to 
enlist  under  his  banner  ? " 

"  It  is  free  to  all,  and  yet  a  secret/' 
he  replied.  "  Whenever  any  one  de- 
sires to  enlist  in  our  Prince's  service,  he 
must  repair  alone,  before  daybreak,  to 
a  lonely  beach  on  our  shores,  and  wait 
there  for  what  the  King  will  send. 
There,  when  the  sun  rises,  not  always 
the  first  morning,  or  the  second,  or  the 
third,  but  always  at  last,  his  first  rays 
gleam  on  a  new  jewel,  exactly  like  the 
others,  sparkling  among  the  shells  and 
pebbles.  The  young  soldier  takes  it  up, 
presses  it  to  his  lips,  murmurs  the  name 
written  on  it,  binds  it  on  his  heart,  and 
it  is  his  own,  and  he  is  the  King's  for 
ever.  None  ever  saw  it  come,  though 
some  fancv  they  have  seen  a  streak  of 

V 


83         THE  JEWEL  OF  THE  ORDER 

light  on  the  sea  when  it  first  appears,  as 
of  the  track  of  an  ilhimination  out  on 
the  waters." 

"What  name  is  engraved  on  it?"  1 
asked. 

"  The  King's  name,"  he  replied,  bow- 
ing his  head  reverently. 

"  May  I  see  it,"  I  said. 

"  You  could  not,"  he  replied,  gravely. 
"None  of  us  can  read  that  name,  ex- 
cept on  our  own  jewels." 

I  was  silent  for  a  moment.  He  con- 
tinued— 

"  But  I  have  a  greater  wonder  yet  to 
tell  you  of  our  jewel — the  greatest  won- 
der of  all ;  and  this  you  must  take  at 
my  word.  The  light  and  glory  of  this 
gem  is  entirely  reflected  from  a  jewel  of 
the  same  kind,  but  infinitely  more  glo- 


OF  THE  king's  OWN.  83 

rious,  which  sparkles  on  the  King's  own 
heart.  When  I  raise  this  gem  to  my 
eyes,  and  look  through  it,"  he  added  in 
a  tone  which  thrilled  with  the  deepest 
emotion,  raising  it  at  the  same  time  like 
a  telescope  to  his  eyes,  "  this  country 
vanishes  from  me  altogether,  and  I  see 
wonders." 

"What  do  you  see?"  I  asked,  halF 
trembling. 

"  I  see  the  King  in  his  beauty,"  he 
replied.  "  I  sec  the  land  which  is  very 
far  off.  I  see  a  city  which  has  no  need 
of  the  sun.  I  see  a  palace  where  his 
servants^  serve  him.  I  see  a  throne 
which  is  as  jasper,  and,  above  it,  a  rain- 
bow like  an  emerald  ;  and,  above  all  I 
see,  I  see  him,  with  the  jewel  on  his 
heart;  but  his  jewel  is  no  mere  gem,  no 


84        THE  JEWEL  OF  THE  ORDER 

reflection — it  is  a  star,  it  is  light  itself; 
and  in  its  richness  the  city,  the  palace, 
and  the  throne,  and  the  happy  faces  of 
his  servants  round  him,  glow  and  shine." 
And  as  he  spoke,  I  looked  at  the  old 
man's  jewelj  and  his  countenance  itself 
grew  so  glorious,  that  I  could  not  gaze 
any  longer,  but  cast  down  my  dazzled 
eyes,  and  was  silent.  At  length,  after  a 
pause  of  some  moments,  my  eagerness 
to  hear  more  constrained  me  to  resume 
the  conversation;  and  when  I  looked  up, 
the  jewel  was  again  hidden  in  the  old 
man's  breast,  his  appearance  had  taken 
its  soberer  beauty,  and  the  presence  of 
that  marvellous  treasure  was  only  be- 
trayed by  the  strange  calm  and  peace 
which  had  first  attracted  me  in  the  ve- 
teran's face. 


OF  THE  king's  OWN.  85 


"  But,"  I  asked,  "  If  such  a  possession 
indeed  is  yours,  the  wonder  now  seems 
to  me  to  be,  how  the  King's  enemies  can 
have  a  follower  left.  Have  your  oppo- 
nents any  similar  reward  to  offer  r" 

••'  Similar  things,"  he  replied,  "  they 
at  one  time  often  tried  to  make,  but  the 
same  they  could  never  have ;  and  even 
to  imitate  the  outside  beauty  of  it  they 
found  so  difficult,  that  the  soberest  men 
of  the  party  have,  for  the  most  part, 
given  it  up  in  despair,  and  say  it  is  all  a 
cheat." 

"But  why,  at  least,  docs  not  each 
one  try  for  himself,"  I  asked,  "  and  see 
if  it  is  true  or  not?" 

"There  are  many  reasons,"  he  re- 
plied, sorrowfully,  "  which  keep  the  land 
from  returning  nationally  to  its  allegi- 


86         THE  JEWEL  OF  THE  ORDER 

ance.  The  usurper  is  still  in  power, 
and  gives  away  the  offices  of  state  as  he 
pleases ;  bonds  and  imprisonments  often 
await  us^  as  you  see  is  the  case  with  me  ; 
and  many  prefer  the  possession  of  lands 
and  houses^  or  even  less,  to  the  reversion 
of  a  city,  and  the  service  of  a  prince  they 
have  never  seen/' 

*'  I  understand,"  I  replied. 

"  Besides, "  he  added,  ''  there  are 
strict  rules  binding  our  order.  The 
people  of  the  usurper  do  each  what  is 
right  in  his  own  eyes;  but  we  are  sub- 
ject to  our  Prince's  laws,  which,  though 
most  blessed  to  those  who  keep  them, 
seem  to  those  who  are  outside,  and  live 
lawlessly,  severe  and  strict.  We  are 
subject  to  our  Prince,  and  to  one  an- 
other for  his  sake ;  and  only  those  who 


OF  THE  king's  OWN.  87 

have  proved  the  joy  of  that  subjection 
and  service  know  how  much  happier 
it  is  than  the  tyranny  of  their  lawless- 
ness and  self-will." 

"What  are  those  counterfeit  jewels 
you  alluded  to?"  I  asked. 

"  They  are  of  various  construction," 
he  replied ;  "  some  try  to  imitate  one 
quality  of  our  jewel,  and  some  another. 
Some  of  the  court  jewellers  of  the  usur- 
per make  a  paste  or  tinsel  jewel,  which, 
when  the  sun  shines,  has  a  lustre  a 
little  like  that  of  ours.  The  young 
courtiers  often  wear  this ;  but  when  the 
sun  is  clouded  or  sets,  it  ceases  to  shine, 
so  that  even  its  outward  resemblance  is 
very  imperfect,  and  it  docs  not  even  pre- 
tend to  imitate  the  secret  of  the  foun- 
tain or  the  magic  glass.     And,  more- 


88         THE  JEWEL  OF  THE  ORDER 

over,  it  can  be  stolen  or  broken :  often, 
even  in  the  courtly  revels,  it  is  broken  ', 
often  it  is  stolen  or  dropped,  and,  even 
if  it  is  retained,  in  a  few  years  the  lustre 
fades  away  and  can  never  be  restored. 
Then,"  he  continued,  "some  made 
a  bold  effort  to  imitate  our  jewel  in  its 
form  of  the  crystal  vase  j  but  the  crystal 
itself  is  dim ;  and  for  the  living  foun- 
tain they  have  never  been  able  to  sub- 
stitute anything  but  a  fiery  liquid, 
needing  constantly  to  be  replenished, 
and,  in  reality,  only  increasing  the 
thirst  it  professes  to  still,  until  it  be- 
comes a  burning,  consuming  inward 
fever.  But  as  they  have  never  tasted 
of  our  water,  the  wretched  deluded 
ones  persist  in  saying  tlieirs  is  the 
true." 


OF  THE  king's  own.  89 

'•'And  the  telescope?"  I  inquired  — 
"  the  magic  glass  ?" 

"  The  telescope/'  he  replied,  with  a 
smile,  which  had  no  mockery,  but  much 
sadness  in  it  —  "the  magic  glass  they 
have  never  even  attempted  to  imitate ; 
and,  therefore,  as  none  can  ever  look 
through  it  but  its  possessor,  they  say  it 
is  a  he  and  a  cheat;  and  our  persisting  in 
declaring  what  it  really  is,  is  the  source 
of  many  of  our  sufferings.  For  this  we 
are  thrown  into  madhouses  and  prisons, 
and  led  to  the  scaffold  and  the  stake." 

After  a  brief  pause,  he  resumed — 

'■'  The  wise  men  and  statesmen  of  the 
usurper's  party  now,  however,  for  the 
most  part,  take  an  entirely  different 
method.  They  discourage  all  these 
counterfeits,  which  they  say  are  paying 


90         THE  JEWEL  OF  THE  ORDER 

a  most  undeserved  compliment  to  us. 
They  say  our  jewels  are  mere  sham  and 
tinsel ;  that  the  light  they  shed  exists 
only  in  the  fancy  of  the  spectators; 
that  the  livino;  water  is  nothino-  but  a 
mirage;  and  that  the  visions  we  see 
through  the  telescope  are  simply  a  lie. 
They  affect  to  despise  us  too  much  to 
punish  us;  and  if  they  persecute  us  at 
all,  it  is  simply  by  contemptuously 
shutting  us  up  in  asylums  as  enthusiasts 
— harmless,  unless  we  mislead  others.  It 
is  only  a  few  of  the  most  inveterate, 
such  as  myself,  who  may  succeed  in 
bringing  over  too  many  to  the  side  of 
our  King,  that  they  occasionally  make 
examples  of  to  sober  the  rest.  But  it  is 
all  entirely  useless,"  he  added,  very  joy- 
fully; "the  King's  followers  increase,  his 


OF  THE  KING  S  OWN.  9T 

cause  is  gaining  ground,  and,"  he  added, 
with  a  subdued  voice,  "  the  King  him- 
self is  coming.'^ 

"  Is  it  really  true,"  I  asked,  after  a 
time,  "  that  nothing,  or  no  man,  can 
rob  you  of  this  treasure?" 

"  Our  treasure  no  man  taketh  from 
us,"  he  replied.  "  This  he  gave  us, 
this  he  left  with  us :  not  as  the  world 
giveth,  gave  he  unto  us." 

"  But  can  nothing  you  yourselves  do, 
or  omit  to  do,  spoil  or  dim  your  jewel?" 
f  resumed. 

His  brow  saddened. 

"  Alas !  there  and  there  only  have 
our  enemies  any  real  strength  against 
us,-'  he  replied.  "  Sorrows  only  add  to 
its  lustre ;  in  the  loss  of  everything  else 
it  only  shines  the  brighter;  hunger  and 


92    THE  JEWEL  OF  THE  ORDER 

thirst  but  prove  the  unfaihng  nature  of 
the  fountain  in  the  crystal  vase ;  desti- 
tution and  darkness,  dungeons  and  tor- 
tures, only  make  the  bright  visions  of 
our  telescope  more  glorious;  hut  we, 
we  ourselves  may  indeed  dim  its  lustre, 
or,  if  we  will,  yield  it  up  altogether." 

"  All  this  is  natural  and  comprehen- 
sible," I  said,  "The  dungeon  must 
make  the  jewel  brighter;  the  drought, 
the  unfailing  spring  more  precious;  the 
narrowing  of  all  prospects  here,  enliance 
the  visions  of  that  magic  glass;  the  cruel- 
ties of  the  usurper,  endear  the  siolit  of 
the  Prince  you  serve." 

"  This  the  wisest  of  our  enemies 
have  found  out,"  the  old  man  replied. 
"They  find  that  nothing  they  can 
do  harms  us,  but  only  what  they  can 


OF  THE  KING  S  OWN.  93 

make  us  do  ourselves;  and  to  this  they 
direct  their  efforts.'^ 

"  In  what  way  ?"  I  inquired. 

"  In  many  ways/'  he  answered,  sadly. 
"  The  jewel,  which  nothing  external  can 
dim,  is  sensitive  to  the  Itast  change  in  us. 
Any  infringement  of  our  King's  laws, 
or,  especially,  any  unfaithfulness  to  our 
King,  dims  its  lustre  at  once;  any 
drinking  of  these  forbidden  cups  of  in- 
toxication dries  up  the  crystal  foun- 
tain; any  yielding  to  the  usurper's  ser- 
vice blots  out  from  our  magic  glass 
its  glorious  visions,  and  the  sight  of 
our  King  in  his  beauty." 

"Are  there  any  other  dangers?"  I 
inquired. 

"  Countless  dangers,"  he  replied. 
"  Especially    three   devices    have    been 


94     THE  JEWEL  OF  THE  ORDER 

found  too  successful  against  us.  Our 
jewel  only  keeps  bright  with  use^  and  in 
three  ways  our  enemies  endeavour  to 
deter  us  from  using  it.  The  timid  they 
threaten,  and  induce  to  hide  it  from 
fear :  and  the  cowardly  concealing  of 
our  treasure  inflicts  on  us  two  evils :  it 
prevents  our  winning  by  it  fresh  fol- 
lowers to  our  Prince;  and  in  conceal- 
ment the  jewel  itself  invariably  grows 
dim.  The  young  and  careless  they  en- 
gage in  the  ambitious  pursuits  or  the 
gay  amusements  of  the  court,  until  they 
forget  to  use  the  precious  gem,  and  in 
ceasing  to  use  it  they  necessarily  cease 
to  shine  with  its  lio;ht,  and  arrow  like 
any  of  the  usurper's  train.  And  again, 
there  are  some  poor,  and  distrusting, 
and  fearful   ones,    whom    our  enemies 


OF  THE  KING  S  OWN.  95 


persuade  that  it  is  a  daring  presumption 
for  such  as  they  to  pretend  they  have 
had  especial  communication  with  the 
King,  and  even  at  times  torment  them 
into  thinking  the  King's  own  jewel 
tinsel  J  so  that,  in  looking  and  looking 
to  see  if  it  is  a  true  jewel,  they  forget  to 
clasp  it  on  their  hearts,  or  drink  the 
living  water,  or  look  through  the  magic 
glass." 

"That  is  a  strange  delusion,"  I  re- 
marked. 

"  Yes,"  he  said ;  '•  but  it  is  easily 
cured,  if  once  we  can  persuade  them 
to  look  through  the  jewel  instead  of 
looking  at  it;  for  then  they  see  the 
King  with  the  jewel  on  his  breast,  and 
the  smile  in  his  eyes,  and  their  doubts 
melt   away  in   floods    of  happy  tears. 


96    THE  JEWEL  OF  THE  ORDER 

This  I  know,"  he  added,  "  for  I  was 
once  one  of  these.  I  had  neglected  to  use 
my  jewel ;  and  then  an  enemy,  in  the 
guise  of  a  friend,  persuaded  me  to  ques- 
tion its  genuineness;  but  I  ventured  to 
look  through  it  once  again,  and  since 
then  I  do  not  look  at  my  jewel,  but 
gaze  through  it  to  the  King's  heart; 
and  from  that  day  my  jewel  has  not 
grown  dim." 

"  But  you  spoke  of  some  who  lost  it 
altogether,"  I  said. 

"  They  are  those,"  he  said,  solemnly, 
"  who  have  deliberately  yielded  it  up  to 
enter  the  service  of  the  usurper,  or  those 
who,  in  base  timidity,  have  cast  it  away 
in  denying  our  King." 

"  And  for  such  can  it  ever  be  re- 
covered?" I  said. 


OF  THE  KING  S  OWN.  97 

"  For  one  such,  as  disloyal  as  any,  it 
was,"  he  answered.  "  He  went  out  and 
ivept  bitterly;  the  King  forgave  him, 
and  in  time  the  treasure  was  restored  to 
him,  and  he  became  one  of  our  most 
glorious  veterans." 

"  How  is  the  jewel  to  be  recovered  if 
lost?"  I  asked. 

"  By  going  to  the  place  where  first 
it  was  found,"  he  replied.  "There,  on 
the  lonely  beach,  before  daybreak,  it 
must  be  sought,  morning  after  mornin^;, 
until  the  sun's  first  rays  reveal  it  once 
more  glittering  among  the  shingle  as  at 
first.  But  the  waiting  is  often  lone'cr 
than  it  was  at  first." 

"  Will  you  wear  your  jewel,"  I 
asked,  "  when  the  King  comes,  or  when 
you  go  to  join  him  bevond  the  sea? " 


q8   toe  jewel  of  the  order 

"There/'  he  replied^  with  an  expres- 
sion of  rapturous  joy,  "we  shall  see  the 
jewel  on  the  King's  heart.  There  we 
shall  have  no  need  of  the  hidden  foun- 
tain, for  the  river  of  living  waters  flows 
there,  bright  as  crystal ;  and  no  need  of 
the  magic  glass,  for  the  King  is  near ; 
but  the  jewel  will  shine  in  that  happy 
place  on  brow  and  breast  for  ever  and 
ever/' 

And  as  I  left  the  sea- shore  and  the 
o|d  man,  these  words  floated  through 
my  heart,  as  if  they  were  echoes  of  his 
history,  or  his  story  an  echo  of  them  : — 

"  Be  not  ye,  as  the  hypocrites,  of  a 
sad  countenance." 

"  Peace  I  leave  with  you,  my  peace  I 
give  unto  you  :  not  as  the  world  giveth, 
give  I  unto  you." 


OF  THE  king's  owx.  99 

"  Rejoice  in  the  Lord  alway :  and 
again  1  say,  Rejoice.'^ 

"  Your  joy  no  man  taketh  from 
you." 


A  LEGEND. 


^1)0  Carljcncal  cijimcjJ: 

A  LEGEND. 


iN  a  city  whose  history  dates 
from  the  ages  of  sih-ery  bells 
and  stately  buildings,  there 
stood,  and  stands  now  for  aught  I  know, 
a  cathedral,  rich  in  all  the  endless  fancies 
of  Gothic  art.  Inside,  it  was  solemn 
with  shade,  and  gorgeous  with  light 
which  came  in  through  the  elaborate 
tracciy  of  the  stained  windows,  many- 
coloured,  and  broken  as  the  sunbeams 
through  a  tropical  forest.  Outside, 
fretted  pinnacles  and  carved  bell-towers 


104   THE  CATHEDRAL  CHIMES. 

sprang  upwardj  grand  yet  fairy-like,  as  li 
stone  towers  rose  as  easily  and  naturally 
towards  heaven  as  oaks  and  pines.  But 
the  ehief  glory  of  this  cathedral  was  its 
bells.  They  were  the  pride  of  the  cit}', 
and  the  c:reat  attraction  to  stran2;ers. 
Their  history  formed  an  important  part 
of  the  civic  chronicles. 

A  lady  of  a  royal  house  had  given 
them  as  a  thankoffering  for  her  lord's 
safe  return  from  the  Crusades.  All  her 
silver-plate  and  ornaments,  with  spoils 
of  Saracens  from  the  recovered  Holy 
Land,  had  been  poured  into  the  mould 
when  they  were  made,  so  that  from 
their  birth  all  tender  and  sacred  memo- 
ries had  been  fused  into  their  very 
essence,  and  their  first  tones  echoed  far- 
uif  times   and  lands.      A  bishop  who 


THE  CATHEDRAL  CHIMES,  10^ 

afterwards  suffered  martyrdom  in  the 
hands  of  African  Moslems  had  blessed 
them.  Their  first  peal  had  sounded  in 
honour  of  a  great  victory.  They  had 
summoned  the  people  through  ages  ot 
conflict  to  defend  their  liberties.  Thev 
had  blended  their  life  with  the  life  of 
every  home, — in  family  joys  and  family 
sorrows,  at  wedding,  christening,  and 
funeral.  They  had  made  Sundays  and 
holidays  glad  with  their  joyous  voices. 
And  last,  but  not  least,  by  aid  of  an 
elaborate  mechanism  of  hammers,  rope, 
and  pulleys,  they  had  for  centuries  cele- 
brated the  departure  of  every  hour  with 
a  chorale,  and  every  half  hour  with  a 
strain  like  the  vcrsicle  of  a  chant,  and 
every  quarter  of  an  hour  with  a  little 
sprinkle  of  sweet  sound. 


1C6        THE  CATHEDRAL  CHIMES. 

Tniaginc,  then,  the  dismay  of  the  citi- 
zens, when,  one  Monday  morning,  eight 
o'clock  came,  and  no  sound  issued  from 
the  cathedral ;  half-past  eight,  silence ; 
nine,  not  a  note  of  warning!  Their 
wonder  was  increased  when  the  usual 
peal  rung  out,  clear  and  full  as  ever,  for 
the  morning  service,  and  by  mid-day  the 
whole  city  was  in  a  commotion.  It  was 
plain  something  must  be  wrong  with  the 
machinery  of  the  chimes. 

Immediately  the  most  skilful  me- 
chanics of  the  town,  clock-makers  and 
bell-founders,  with  the  men  of  science, 
and  the  whole  corporation,  in  a  state- 
procession,  mounted  the  clock-tower, 
"  We  will  soon  set  it  right,'^  they  said 
to  the  agitated  crowd  as  they  entered 
the  belfry-door.     The  ropes  of  the  ma- 


THE  CATHEDRAL  CHIMES.    lOJ 

chinery  were  tested, — all  were  sound; 
not  a  flaw  in  the  hammers ;  not  a  clog 
in  the  wheels ;  not  a  craek  in  the  silvery- 
metal.  Microscopes  were  employed, 
conjectures  were  hazarded,  experiments 
of  all  kinds  were  tried,  but  not  a  ray  of 
light  w-as  thrown  on  the  perplexity. 
The  clever  hands,  and  the  wise  heads, 
and  the  will  of  the  authorities  were  all 
bafRed ;  and  the  procession  reappeared 
to  the  assembled  multitudes  with  very 
crestfallen  looks. 

That  afternoon  little  work  was  done 
in  the  workshops,  few  lessons  were 
learned  in  the  schools,  all  the  routine 
of  household  habits  was  interrupted ; 
and  when  it  grew  dark  the  Great  Square 
was  filled  with  people  who  were  afraid 
to  separate  and  go  to  bed  without  the 


108        THE  CATHEDRAL  CHIMKS. 

sanction  of  the  cathedral  chimes.  INIanv 
foreboded  some  terrible  disaster  to  the 
city,  and  some  thought  the  end  of  the 
world  was  come. 

But  when  it  was  dark  a  sound  very 
weird  and  strange,  yet  with  a  music  like 
the  old  familiar  tones,  came  from  the 
church-tower,  as  it  rose  dim  and  grand 
against  the  starry  sky.  It  was  a  voice, 
not  human,  yet  with  a  strange  like- 
ness to  a  human  voice,  silvery  as  a 
stream,  thi-illing  as  a  battle-trumpet, 
familiar  to  each  listener  as  his  own, 
like  the  blended  voices  of  a  spirit  and  a 
bell. 

"  We  have  borne  it  too  long,"  said  the 
bell-voice.  "We  were  set  here  on  hio-h 
for  other  purposes  than  men  have  put 
us  to.     Is  not  this  a  cathedral,  a  sane- 


THE  CATHEDRAL  CHIMES.    IC9 

tuary,  and  a  shrine,  sacred  with  the  dust 
of  martyrs,  and  dedicated  to  the  service 
of  Heaven  ?  Were  not  we  christened 
like  immortals  ?  Were  not  we  conse- 
secrated  Hke  priests?  The  touch  of 
holy  hands  is  on  us,  and  shall  we  be 
debased  to  secular  uses  ?  Set  apart  like 
sacred  ministers  in  a  sacred  dwelling, 
shall  we  be  required  to  mingle  in  the 
common  circumstances  of  your  daily 
life?  Raised  on  high  to  be  near  the 
heavens  we  serve,  shall  our  saintly  voices 
serve  to  tell  you  when  to  eat  and  sleep  ? 
We  have  borne  it  too  long.  We  will 
still  serve  Heaven,  and  summon  you  on 
Sundays  and  Holydays.  We  will  call 
you  to  the  solemn  services  of  the  Church. 
\Vc  will,  if  necessary,  sound  a  trium- 
phant peal  on  days  of  national  thanks- 


no        THE  CATHEDRAL  CHIMES. 

giving,  in  remembrance  of  the  Victory 
which  first  awoke  us  into  music.  We 
will  even  condescend  to  ring  at  your 
weddings — because  marriage  is  a  sacred 
office — and  at  your  baptisms.  We  will 
toll  solemnly  when  your  spirits  pass 
from  earth,  and  when  your  bodies  are 
laid  in  the  churchyard  we  have  seen 
slowly  raised  with  the  dust  of  your 
dying  generations.  But  henceforth  ex- 
pect us  not  to  do  work  which  your  com- 
monest house-clocks  can  do  as  well. 
Let  your  eight-day  clocks — your  gilded 
time-pieces — call  you  to  work,  and  eat, 
and  rest.  We  are  sacred  things,  set 
solemnly  apart  from  all  secular  uses. 
Our  business  is  with  Eternity,  and  the 
Church,  and  Heaven.  Call  on  us  no 
more  to  commune  with  the  things  of 


THE  CATHEDRAL  CHIMES.    Ill 

the  world,  and  earth,  and  time.  We 
are  your  cathedral  bells,  but  we  will 
be  your  household  clock-chimes  no 
longer.^' 

Then  the  voice  died  away  on  the 
night  air.  For  a  few  minutes  there 
was  silence,  but  soon  it  was  broken  by 
sobs  and  lamentations,  and  all  the 
people  lifted  up  their  voice  as  one  man, 
and  wept. 

The  house-father  said,  "  Shall  we 
never  more  hear  your  voice  calling 
us  to  morning  and  evening  prayer? 
Whenever  you  told  us  it  was  the 
hour,  the  mother  came  from  her  work, 
and  the  children  from  their  play,  and 
together  we  knelt  a  united  family,  and 
committed  each  other  to  God." 

And  the  mother  said,  "  Your  voices 


113         THE  CATHEDRAL  CHIMES. 

are  blended  with  every  happy  household 
time.  Sweet  bells,  will  you  mingle  with 
our  family  joys  no  more  ?  In  the  morn- 
ing you  wakened  us  to  begin  another 
busy  day,  and  the  sun's  beams  and  your 
voices  came  together  to  call  us  to  serve 
God  in  our  lowly  calling ;  and  both,  we 
thought,  came  to  us  from  heaven  ;  and 
both,  we  thought,  were  meek  and 
lowly,  and  ready  to  minister  to  us  in 
our  daily  lives,  because  both  were  sent 
from  Him  who  came  among  us  once, 
not  to  be  ministered  unto,  but  to  minis- 
ter; and  both,  we  thought,  had  caught 
something  of  the  light  of  the  eyes  which 
wept  at  Bethany,  and  of  the  tones  of 
the  voice  which  spoke  at  Cana  and  at 
Nain.  At  midday  you  told  me  it  was 
time  to  send  the  dinner  to  my  hushand 


THE  CATHEDRAL  CHIMES.    II3 

and  my  elder  sons.  x\t  six  your  voice 
was  welcome  to  us  all,  because  we  knew 
the  father's  step  would  soon  be  on  the 
threshold.  At  eight  you  reminded  me 
it  was  time  to  lay  the  little  ones  to  rest, 
and  many  a  time  have  you  brought 
happy  and  holy  thoughts  to  me  in  those 
psalms  you  sang  to  me  whilst  I  hushed 
my  babes  to  sleep;  and  all  my  every- 
day life  seemed  to  be  more  linked  with 
sacred  things,  to  become,  as  it  were,  a 
part  of  the  service  of  God,  because  it 
moved  to  the  music  of  your  voices. 
And  again  at  night  your  tones  were 
welcome,  as  in  the  morriing,  when  they 
told  us  the  day's  work  was  over,  and, 
wearied,  we  lay  down  to  peaceful  rest ; 
for  through  the   night  we   knew  your 

sacred  voices   would  sound  to  Heaven 
H 


114        THE  CATHEDRAL  CHIMES. 

above  our  sleeping  city,  like  the  voices 
of  the  angels,  who  rest  not  day  nor 
night,  saying,  Holy,  holy,  holy.  Sweet 
bells,  will  you  never  chime  for  us 
again  ?" 

And  the  children  said,  in  their  clear, 
sweet,  ringing  voices,  ""  Dear  chimes,  do 
not  cease  to  play  to  us.  You  wake  us  to 
thehappyday,you  set  usfree  from  school, 
and  send  us  home  laughing  and  dancing 
for  joy;  you  call  our  fathers  home  to  us, 
at  night  you  sing  us  to  sleep,  and  your 
voices  are  blended  with  our  mothers' 
in  our  happy  dreams.  Sweet  chimes, 
you  sang  so  many  years  to  our  fathers 
and  mothers;  and  our  grandfathers  re- 
member you  when  they  were  little  chil- 
dren like  us.  Dear  chimes,  sing  to  us 
still." 


THE  CATHEDRAL  CHIMES.         1 1^ 

And  from  the  sick-chamber,  which 
looked  into  the  cathedral  square,  where 
the  windows  were  darkened  all  day,  and 
sand  was  strewn  before  the  door,  that 
the  din  of  the  passing  wheels  might  jar 
less  roughly  on  the  aching  head  with- 
in, came  a  low  and  plaintive  voice, — 
"  Sweet  bells,  your  commonest  tones 
are  sacred  to  me.  You  are  my  church 
music,  the  only  church  music  I  can 
ever  hear.  When  I  hear  you  chime 
the  hour  on  Sundays  and  on  the  fes- 
tivals, I  feel  myself  among  the  multi- 
tude within  your  sacred  walls,  and 
your  voice  seems  to  bear  their  sono-s 
of  praise  to  me,  and  I  am  no  more 
alone,  but  one  of  the  worshippers.  But 
at  night  it  is  I  prize  you  most.  All 
through  the  hours  of  darkness,  so  often 


Il6         THE  CATHEDRAL  CHIMES. 

sleepless  to  me,  your  voice  is  the  voice  of 
a  friend,  familiar  as  my  mother's,  yet 
solemn  as  the  chants  of  the  choir.  It 
helps  me  to  measure  off  the  hours  of 
pain,  and  say,  '  Thank  God,  an  hour 
less  of  night,  and  an  hour  nearer  morn- 
ing.' And  how  often,  when  my  suf- 
fering is  great,  you  have  come  with  the 
old  psalm-tunc,  and  every  tone  has 
brought  its  word  to  me,  and  spoken  to 
me  as  if  direct  from  God,  and  filled  my 
heart  with  trust  and  peace !  Your  least 
sprinkles  of  sweet  sound  arc  precious  to 
me.  I  fancy  they  are  like  the  waters 
of  time  falling  musically  from  stone  to 
stone  on  their  way  to  the  great  sea.  I 
feel  they  are  as  the  echoes  of  the  foot- 
steps of  Him  who  is  drawing  nearer  and 
nearer  to  me,  and  they  draw  my  heart 


THE  CATHEDRAL  CHIMES.   II7 

nearer  to  Him.  Sweet  bells,  your  com- 
monest tones  are  sacred,  for  what  is 
the  World  but  that  which  becomes  the 
Church  when  it  learns  how  God  has 
loved  it,  and  turns  from  self  to  Him  ? 
and  what  is  Earth  but  the  floor  of 
Heaven,  which  heavenly  feet  once  trod  ? 
and  what  is  Time  but  the  little  fragment 
of  Eternity  In  which  we  live  on  earth  ? 
Sweet  bells,  make  not  my  sleepless 
nights  lonely  and  silent,  but  sing  to 
me,  sing  to  us  all,  as  of  old.  Make  all 
our  life  sacred  by  linking  every  frag- 
ment of  our  life  to  God." 

But  still  no  responsive  sound  came 
from  the  cathedral  tower,  and  the  people 
waited  on  in  the  silence  and  the  dark- 
ness. At  last  a  young  priest  came  for 
ward   and   ventured  a  bold  suoHrcstion; 


I  I  8        THE  CATHEDRAL  CHIMES. 

— "  Are  not  the  devils  proud,  and  the 
angels  lowly  ?  Did  the  angel  think  it 
beneath  him  to  say  to  Elijah,  Arise, 
and  eat  ? '  Did  Gabriel  hesitate  to  de- 
scend from  the  presence  of  God  to  bear 
to  an  aged  priest  the  tidings  of  the 
birth  of  a  child  ?  Did  that  other  angel 
deem  it  secular  to  say  to  Peter  the 
apostle,  '  Gird  thyself,  and  bind  on  thy 
sandals,  and  cast  thy  garment  about 
thee,'  before  he  led  him  over  the  stony 
streets  throuoh  the  cold  nioht  air? 
And  should  our  cathedral  bells  scorn 
to  bid  us  ^rise  and  eat,'  or  to  chime  at 
our  births,  or  to  summon  us  to  'gird 
and  clothe '  ourselves  for  every  day's 
work  ?  Brethren,  proud  thoughts,  and 
scorn  of  daily  service,  and  voices  which 
call  our  everyday  life  common  and  un- 


THE  CATHEDRAL  CHIMES.    II9 

clean,  are  not  from  Heaven.  The  bells 
are  possessed  by  a  proud  and  evil  spirit. 
Let  us  exorcise  them." 

The  suggestion  at  first  startled  the 
people  as  daring,  and  irreverent  to  the 
church  bells,  but  in  their  despair  they 
at  Icnirth  agreed  to  try  it.  A  solemn 
procession  of  priests  and  holy  men 
and  women  mounted  the  cathedral 
tower,  and,  in  ancient  formulas,  with 
prayer  and  incense,  and  the  music  of 
holy  hymns,  they  exorcised  the  fiend. 

Then  at  once  a  tide  of  pent-up  music 
flowed  from  the  liberated  bells.  They 
conscientiously  rang  out  all  at  once 
every  hour  and  half-hour  they  had 
omitted,  and  then  meekly  and  steadily 
resumed  their  wonted  chimes,  and  con 
tinned  them  ever  afterwards,  like  voices 


120        THE  CATHEDRAL  CHIMES. 

of  happy  and  lowly  angels  calling  men 
to  wake  and  pray,  to  "  rise  and  eat,"  to 
pray  and  rest,  cheering  the  workman  to 
his  daily  labour,  and  welcoming  him 
from  it,  chanting  to  the  mother  as  she 
lulled  her  babe,  and  in  the  sick-chamber 
soothing  the  lonely  hours  with  melo- 
dious sound,  and  waking  in  the  lonely 
heart  sweet  echoes  of  the  psalms  of 
praise. 

Here  the  Legend  ended.  I  heard, 
however,  afterwards  that  the  young 
priest,  who  exorcised  them,  lived  to 
spread  Glad  Tidings  through  the  city, 
but  that  he  was  at  last  burned  in 
the  cathedral  square  for  preaching  to 
men  what  he  had  said  about  the  church 
bells.  Yet  in  the  flames,  it  was  said, 
he    looked   up  to  the  cathedral  tower, 


THE  CATHEDRAL  CHIMES.    121 


and  sang  the  words  of  a  psalm  of  praise 
the  old  bells  were  chiming,  till  his  voice 
was  silenced  in  death.  And  ever  since 
the  chimes  have  taken  up  his  message, 
and  cfeant  to  those  who  will  listen,  hour 
by  hour. 

"  Whether,  therefore,  ye  eat  or  drink, 
or  whatsoever  ye  do,  do  all  to  the  glory 
of  God." 


(LcUIjat  makt0  (Iljing^  3^u0icdl: 


M\)iM  malxcjj  '(Eljinffjs  S^usffcal? 


What  makes  things  musical? 

iiHE  Sun!"  said  the  Forest. 
"  In  the  night  I  am  still 
and  voiceless.  A  weight  of 
silence  lies  upon  my  heart.  If  you  pass 
through  me,  the  sound  of  your  own 
footstep  echoes  fearfully,  like  the  foot- 
fall of  a  ghost.  If  you  speak  to  break 
the  spell,  the  silence  closes  in  on  your 
words,  like  the  ocean  on  a  pebble  you 
throw  into  it.  The  wind  sighs  far  off 
among  the  branches,  as  if  he  were  hush- 
ing his  breath  to  listen.     If  a  little  bird 


126     WHAT  MAKES  THINGS  MUSICAL  ? 

chirps  uneasily  in  its  nest,  it  is  silenced 
before  you  can  find  out  whence  the 
sound  came.  But  the  dawn  breaks.  Be- 
fore a  gray  streak  can  be  seen,  my  trees 
feel  it,  and  quiver  through  every  old 
trunk  and  tiny  twig  with  joy;  my  birds 
feel  it,  and  stir  dreamily  in  their  nests, 
as  if  they  were  just  murmuring  to  each 
other,  'How  comfortable  we  are!' 
Then  the  wind  awakes,  and  tunes  my 
trees  for  the  concert,  striking  his  hand 
across  one  and  another,  until  all  their 
varied  harmonies  are  astir;  the  soft, 
liquid  rustlings  of  my  oaks  and  beeches 
make  the  rich  treble  to  the  deep,  plain- 
tive tones  of  my  pines.  Then  my  early 
birds  awake  one  bv  one,  and  answer  each 
other  in  sweet  responses,  until  the  Sun 
rises,  and  the  whole  joyous  chorus  bursts 


WHAT  MAKES  THINGS  MUSICAL?     127 


into  song  to  the  organ  and  flute  accom- 
panimeuts  of  my  evergreens  and  sum- 
mer leaves ;  and  in  the  pauses  countless 
happy  insects  chirp,  and  buzz,  and  whirl 
with  contented  murmuring  among  my 
ferns  and  flower-bells.  The  Sun  makes 
me  musical,"  said  the  Forest. 

What  makes  things  musical? 

"  Storms  ! "  said  the  Sea.  "  In  calm 
weather  I  lie  still  and  sleep,  or,  now  and 
then,  say  a  few  quiet  words  to  the 
beaches  I  ripple  on,  or  the  boats  which 
glide  through  my  waters.  But  in  the 
tempest  you  learn  what  my  voice  is, 
when  all  my  slumbering  powers  awake, 
and  I  thunder  through  the  caverns,  and 
rush  with  all  my  battle-music  on  the 
rocks,  whilst,  between  the  grand  artillery 


128     WHAT  MAKES  THINGS  MUSICAL  ? 


of  my  breakers,  the  wind  peals  its  wild 
trumpet-peals,  and  the  waters  rush  back 
to  my  breast  from  the  cliffs  they  have 
scaled,  in  torrents  and  cascades,  like  the 
voices  of  a  thousand  rivers.  My  music 
is  battle-music.  Storms  make  me 
musical,"  said  the  Sea. 

What  makes  things  musical? 

"  Action  V  said  the  Stream.  "  I  lay 
still  in  my  mountain-cradle  for  a  long 
while.  It  is  very  silent  up  there.  Oc- 
casionally the  shadow  of  an  eagle  swept 
across  me  with  a  wild  cry;  but  gene- 
rally, from  morning  till  night,  I  knew 
no  change  save  the  shadows  of  my  rocky 
cradle,  which  went  round  steadily  with 
the  sun,  and  the  shadows  of  the  clouds, 
which    glided    across  me,  without   my 


WHAT  MAKES  THINGS  MUSICAL?     I29 

ever  knowing  whence  or  whither.  But 
the  rocks  and  clouds  are  very  silent. 
The  singing-birds  did  not  venture  so 
high ;  and  the  insects  had  nothing  to 
tempt  them  near  me,  because  no  honey- 
ed flower-bells  bent  over  me  there — no- 
thing but  little  mosses  and  gray  lichens, 
and  these,  though  very  lovely,  are  quiet 
creatures,  and  make  no  stir.  I  used  to 
find  it  monotonous  sometimes,  and 
longed  to  have  power  to  wake  the 
hills ;  and  I  should  have  found  it  more 
so,  had  I  not  felt  I  was  growing,  and 
should  flow  forth  to  bless  the  fields 
by  and  by.  Every  drop  that  fell  into 
my  rocky  basin  I  welcomed;  and,  at 
last,  the  spring  rains  came,  and  all  my 
rocks  sent  me  down  little  rills  on  every 
side,   and   the    snows    melted  into  my 


130     WHAT  MAKES  THINGS  MUSICAL? 

cup ;  and,  at  last,  T  rose  beyond  the 
rim  of  my  dwelling,  and  was  free. 
Then  I  danced  down  over  the  hills,  and 
sang  as  I  went,  till  all  the  lonely  places 
were  glad  with  my  voice;  and  I  tinkled 
over  the  stones  like  bells,  and  crept 
among  my  cresses  like  fairy  flutes,  and 
dashed  over  the  rocks  and  plunged  into 
the  pools  with  all  my  endless  harmonies. 
Action  makes  me  musical,"  said  the 
Stream. 

What  makes  things  musical? 

"Suffering!"  said  the  Harp-strings. 
"We  were  dull  lumps  of  silver  and 
copper-ore  in  the  mines;  and  no  silence 
on  the  living,  sunny  earth  is  like  the 
blank  of  voiceless  ages  in  those  dead 
and   sunless  depths.     But,  since  then, 


WHAT  MAKES  THINGS  MUSICAL?     I3I 

we  have  passed  through  many  fires.  The 
hidden  earth-fires  underneath  the  moun- 
tains first  moulded  us,  millenniums  since, 
to  ore;  and  then,  in  these  last  years, 
human  hands  have  finished  the  training 
which  makes  us  what  we  are.  We  have 
been  smelted  in  furnaces  heated  seven 
times,  till  all  our  dross  was  gone;  and 
then  we  have  been  drawn  out  on  the  rack, 
and  hammered  and  fused,  and,  at  last, 
stretched  on  these  wooden  frames,  and 
drawn  tighter  and  tighter,  until  we  won- 
der at  ourselves,  and  at  the  gentle  hand 
which  strikes  such  rich  and  wondrous 
chords  and  melodies  from  us — from  us, 
who  were  once  silent  lumps  of  ore  in  the 
silent  mines.  Fires  and  blows  have 
done  it  for  us.  Suffering  has  made  us 
musical,"  said  the  Harp-strings. 


132   what  makes  things  musical? 

What  makes  things  musical? 

"  Union  !  '^  said  the  Rocks.  "  What 
could  be  less  musical  than  we,  as  we 
rose  in  bare  crags  from  the  hill-tops,  or 
lay  strewn  about  in  huge  isolated  boul- 
ders in  the  valleys  ?  The  trees  which 
sprang  from  our  crevices  had  each  its 
voice;  the  forests  which  clothed  our 
sides  had  all  these  voices  blended  in 
richest  harmonies  when  the  wind  touch- 
ed them;  the  streams  which  gushed 
from  our  stony  hearts  sang  joyous  carols 
to  us  all  day  and  all  night  long;  the 
grasses  and  wild-flowers  which  clasped 
their  tiny  fingers  round  us  had  each  some 
sweet  murmur  of  delight  as  the  breezes 
played  with  them;  but  we,  who  ever 
thought  there  was  music  in  us?     Yet 


WHAT  MAKES  THINGS  MUSICAL  ?     I33 

now  a  human  hand  has  gathered  us  from 
moor  and  mountahi  and  lonely  fell,  and 
side  by  side  we  lie  and  give  out  music  to 
the  hand  that  strikes  us.  Thus  we, 
who  had  Iain  for  centuries  unconscious 
that  there  was  a  note  of  music  in  our 
hearts,  answer  one  another  in  melodious 
tones,  and  combine  in  rich  chords,  just 
because  we  have  been  brought  together. 
Union  makes  us  musical,"  said  the 
Rocks. 

What  makes  things  musical? 

"Life!"  said  the  Oak-beam  in  the 
good  ship.  "  I  know  it  by  its  loss. 
Once  I  quivered  in  the  forest  at  the 
touch  of  every  breeze.  Every  living 
leaf  of  mine  had  melody,  and  all  to- 
gether made  a  stream  of  many-voiced 


134    WHAT  MAKES  THINGS  MUSICAL  ? 

music  J  whilst  around  me  were  countless 
living  trees  like  myself,  who  woke  at 
every  dawn  to  a  chorus  in  the  morning 
breeze.  But  since  the  axe  was  laid 
at  our  roots,  all  the  music  has  gone 
from  our  branches.  We  are  useful  still, 
they  say,  in  the  gallant  ship,  and  our 
country  mentions  "us  with  honour  even 
in  death ;  but  the  music  has  gone  from 
us  with  life  for  ever,  and  we  can  only 
groan  and  creak  in  the  storms.  Lipe 
made  us  musical,"  said  the  Oak-beam. 

What  makes  creatures  musical? 
"Joy!"  laughed  the  Children,  and 
their  happy  laughter  pealed  through  the 
sweet  fresh  air  as  they  bounded  over  the 
fields,  as  if  it  had  caught  the  most  m  usical 
tones  of  everything  musical  in  nature, — 


WHAT  MAKES  THINGS  MUSICAL  ?     I  35 

the  ripple  of  waves,  the  thikling  ot 
brooks,  the  morning  songs  of  birds. 
'^JoY  makes  creatures  musical,"  said 
the  Children. 

What  makes  things  musical? 

"Love!"  said  the  little  Thrush,  as 
he  warbled  to  his  mate  on  the  spring 
morning,  and  the  Mother,  as  she  sang 
soft  lullabies  to  her  babe.  And  all  the 
Creatures  said — 

"  Amen !  Love  makes  us  musical. 
In  Storms  and  Sunshine,  Suffering  and 
Joy,  Action,  Union,  Life,  Love  is  the 
music  at  the  heart  of  all.  Love  makes 
us  musical,"  said  all  the  Creatures. 

And  from  the  multitude  before  the 
throne,  who,  through  fires  of  Tribula- 
tion and  Storms  of  conflict,  had  learned 


I3<5    WHAT  MAKES  THINGS  MUSICAL  ? 


the  new  song,  and  from  depths  of  Dark- 
ness and  the  silence  of  Isolation  had 
been  brouoht  tog^ether  in  the  Li^ht  of 
Life  to  sing  it,  floated  down  a  soft 
"  Amen,  for  God  is  Love.'* 


%\)z  acorn. 


HEN  will  my  training  be- 
gin ? "  said  the  acorn  to 
itself,  as  it  unfolded  its 
delicately-carved  cup  and  saucer  on  the 
branch  of  an  old  oak  on  the  edge  of  a 
forest.  "  I  understand  I  am  to  be  an 
oak  one  day,  like  my  father.  All  the 
acorns  say  that  is  what  we  are  to  be, 
but  there  certainly  seems  little  chance 
of  it  at  present.  I  have  been  sitting 
here  for  no  one  knows  how  many  days, 
and  I  feel  no  change,  except  that  I  look 
less  pretty  than  I  did  when  I  was  young 


140  THE  ACORN. 


and  green,  and  begin  to  feel  rather  dry, 
and  shrivelled,  and  old.  At  this  rate, 
I  do  not  see  much  chance  of  my  be- 
coming an  oak,  or  anything  else  but  an 
old,  dry  acorn.  When  will  ray  train- 
ing begin  ? " 

As  it  meditated  thus,  a  strong  breeze 
sighed  mournfully  through  the  autunm 
woods,  and  shook  down  many  brown 
leaves  from  the  old  oak,  and  with  them 
the  acorn. 

"  This  will  hinder  my  progress  again," 
thought  the  acorn,  "for  it  is  evident 
such  a  downfall  as  this  can  have  no- 
thing to  do  with  m>y  education.  When 
will  my  training  begin  ?  " 

A  day  or  two  afterwards  a  drove  of 
hogs  was  turned  into  the  forest,  and 
they    began    grunting    and     grubbing 


THE  ACORN.  I4I 

among  the  dead  leaves  for  acorns. 
Many  of  its  brethren  did  our  acorn  see 
ruthlessly  hurried  into  those  voracious 
jaws.  It  kept  v^ery  quiet  under  the  dead 
leaves  to  avoid  a  similar  fate,  but  it 
thought — "This  is  a  sad  delay.  It  is  too 
plain  that  being  trampled  on  and  tossed 
about  in  this  way  can  teach  no  one  any- 
thing. When  will  my  training  begin  ?" 
Meanwhile,  the  swine  rummaged 
among  the  dead  leaves,  and  trod  them 
under  foot,  and  tossed  the  decaying 
mould  hither  and  thither  with  their 
snouts  and  feet,  until  one  of  them  by 
accident  rolled  our  acorn  down  a  little 
hill,  where  it  lay  buried  under  some 
stray  leaves  many  yards  from  the  edge 
of  the  forest,  in  the  outskirts  of  a  park. 
There  it  lav  unobserved  all  the  rest  of 


143  THE  ACORN. 


the  winter.  Even  this  was  a  pleasant 
change  after  having  been  tossed  about 
and  trodden  under  foot  so  long,  but  in 
its  fall  its  shrivelled  brown  skin  had 
cracked,  and  the  acorn  thought — "This 
is  a  sad  disaster.  How  ever  am  I  to  grow 
into  an  oak^  when  I  am  so  crushed  and 
cracked  that  scarcely  any  one  would  re- 
cognise me  for  an  acorn  ?  When  will 
my  training  begin  ?  " 

All  the  winter  the  rain  pattered  on  it, 
and  sank  it  deeper  and  deeper  under 
the  dead  leaves  and  under  the  earth- 
clods,  until  all  its  acorn  beauty  was 
marred  and  crushed  out  of  it,  and  it 
fell  asleep  in  the  dark,  under  the  cold, 
damp  earth ;  and  the  snows  came  and 
folded  it  in  under  their  white,  eider- 
down pillows.    At  last,  the  warm  touch, 


THX  ACORN.  143 


that  comes  to  all  sleeping  nature  in  the 
spring,  came  softly  on  it,  and  it  awoke. 

"  What  a  pity/'  it  said,  "  I  should 
have  lost  so  much  time  by  falling  asleep  ! 
T  can  scarcely  make  out  what  I  am  like, 
or  where  I  am.  What  a  sad  waste  of 
time  1  It  is  clear  no  one  can  go  on 
with  his  education  in  sleep.  When 
will  my  training  begin  ?" 

With  these  thoughts,  it  stretched  out 
two  little  green  things  on  each  side  of 
it,  which  felt  like  wings;  and  tried  to 
peep  out  of  its  hole,  and,  to  its  delight, 
it  succeeded,  and,  with  a  few  more 
efforts,  even  contrived  to  keep  its  head 
steadily  above  ground,  and  look  around 
it. 

"  There  is  my  father,  the  old  oak," 
it  said.     "  He  looks  quite  green  again. 


144  "^HE  ACORN. 

But  I  am  a  long  way  off  from  him, 
and  how  very  small  and  close  to  the 
ground  1  When  shall  I  begin  to  be 
like  him?" 

But  meantime  it  was  very  happy.  It 
felt  so  full  of  life,  although  so  small ; 
and  the  sun  shone  so  graciously  on  it, 
and  all  the  showers  and  dews  seemed  so 
full  of  kindly  desires  to  help  and  nourish 
it ;  and  more  and  more  little  green  leaves 
expanded  from  its  sides,  and  more  and 
more  little  busy  roots  shot  down  into 
the  earth,  and  the  leaves  breathed  and 
drank  in  the  sunshine,  and  the  roots  were 
great  chemists  and  cooks,  and  concocted 
a  perpetual  feast  for  it  out  of  the  earth 
and  stones.  But  it  thought  sometimes, 
'^  This  Is  all  exceedingly  pleasant,  and  I 
am  very  happy ;  but,  of  course,  this  is 


THE  ACORN. 


145 


not  education;  it  is  only  enjoyino-  inv- 
self.     When  will  my  training  begin  ?  " 

The  next  spring  the  early  frosts  had 
much  more  power  over  it  in  its  de- 
tached, exposed  situation  than  over  the 
saplings  in  the  shelter  of  the  forest,  and 
it  saw  the  trees  in  the  wood  growing 
green,  and  tempting  the  song-birds  be- 
neath their  leafy  tents,  whilst  the  sap  still 
flowed  feebly  upward  through  its  tiny 
cells,  and  its  twigs  and  leaf-buds  were 
still  brown  and  hard. 

"This  must  be  a  great  hindrance  to 
me,"  it  thought  —  "  this,  no  doubt, 
will  retard  my  education  considerably. 
What  a  pity  I  stand  here  so  detached 
and  unprotected  I  When  will  my  train- 
ing begin?" 

But  in  the  late   spring  came   some 

K 


146  THE  ACORN. 


days  of  black  east  wind  and  bitter  frost, 
and  it  saw  the  more  forward  leaves  in 
the  wood  turn  pale  and  shrivel  before 
they  unfolded,  and  then  fall  off,  nipped 
and  lifeless,  to  join  the  old  dead  leaves 
of  the  past  autumn,  whilst  its  own  little 
buds  lay  safe  within  their  hard  and 
glossy  casings,  protected  by  one  enemy 
against  a  worse.  And  when  the  east 
wind  and  the  black  frosts  were  gone,  the 
little  sapling  shot  up  freely. 

In  that  summer,  and  the  next,  and 
the  next,  it  made  great  progress ;  but  in 
the  fourth  autumn  a  great  disappoint- 
ment awaited  it.  The  owner  of  the 
park  in  which  it  grew  came  by,  and 
stood  beside  it,  and  said  to  his  forester — 

"  That  sapling  is  worth  preserving, 
it   is    so  vigorous    and    healthy;    and. 


THE  ACORN. 


147 


Standing  in  this  detached  position,  it 
will  break  the  line  of  the  wood,  and 
look  well  from  my  house.  We  will 
watch  it,  and  set  a  fence  around  it  to 
guard  it  from  the  cattle.  But  it  has 
thrown  out  a  false  leader.  Take  your 
knife  and  cut  this  straggling  shoot  away, 
and  next  year,  I  have  no  doubt,  it  will 
grow  well." 

Then  the  forester  applied  his  knife 
carefully  to  the  false  leader,  and  cut  it  off. 
But  the  sapling,  not  having  understood 
the  master's  words,  nor  observed  with 
what  care  and  design  the  knife  was  ap- 
plied, felt  wounded  to  the  core. 

"My  best  and  strongest  shoot,"  it 
sighed  to  itself.  "  It  was  a  cruel  cut. 
It  will  take  me  a  long  time  to  repair 
that  loss.     I  an)  afraid  it  has  lost  me  at 


148  THE  ACORX. 


least  a  year.  When  will  my  training 
begin?" 

But  the  next  year  the  master's  words 
were  fulfilled. 

Thus  years  passed  on.  And  slowly, 
twig  by  twiff,  and  shoot  by  shoot,  the 
sapling  grew.  Sunbeams  expanded  its 
leaves  ;  rains  nourished  its  roots  ;  frosts, 
checking  its  early  buds,  hardened  its 
wood ;  winds  swaying  it  hither  and 
thither,  as  if  they  were  determined  to 
level  it,  only  rooted  it  more  firmly. 
And  year  by  year  the  top  grew  a  little 
higher,  and  the  wood  a  little  firmer, 
and  the  trunk  a  little  thicker,  and  the 
roots  a  little  deeper ;  but  so  slowly,  that 
summer  by  summer  it  said — 

"This  is  very  pleasant;  but  it  Is  only 
breathing,  and   being  happy.      It  cer- 


THE  ACORN.  1 49 


tainly  cannot  be  the  discipline  which 
forms  the  great  oaks.  When  will  my 
training-  bcoin  ?" 

And  autumn  by  autumn,  as  the  sap 
flowed  downward,  and  the  buds  ceased 
to  expand,  and  the  branches  grew  leaf- 
less and  dry,  it  thought — 

"  This  is  a  sad  loss  of  time.  Now  I 
am  falling  into  torpor  again,  and  shall 
make  not  an  inch  of  progress  for  six 
long  months.  When  will  my  training 
begin  ?" 

And  winter  by  winter,  as  the  winds 
bent  it  to  and  fro,  and  made  its  branches 
creak,  and  threatened  its  very  existence, 
and  the  heavy  snows  sometimes  broke 
its  boughs — 

"  These  are  sore  trials.  I  may  be 
thankful   if  T   barelv  struoole  through 


150  THE  ACORN. 


them !  In  days  like  these  existence  is 
an  effort,  and  endurance  the  utmost  one 
can  attain.  When  will  my  training  be- 
gin?" 

And  in  the  spring,  when  the  frosts 
nipped  its  finest  buds — 

"These  little  nips  and  checks  are 
very  annoying  ;  but  one  must  bear  them 
patiently.  They  are  certainly  hind- 
rances; and  it  is  disheartening,  when 
one  does  one's  best,  to  be  continually 
thrown  back  by  these  trifling  checks. 
When  will  my  training  begin  ?" 

But,  one  summer  day,  a  little  girl 
and  an  old  man  came  and  seated  them- 
selves under  its  shade.  By  this  time  it 
had  seen  some  generations  of  men,  and 
had  learned  something  of  human  lan- 
guage. 


THE   ACORX.  151 

The  old  man  said — "  I  remember, 
when  I  was  a  very  Httle  boy,  my  grand- 
father telling  me  how.  when  lie  was 
young,  he  had  marked  this  tree,  then  a 
mere  saphng,  and  pruned  it  of  a  false 
shoot,  which  would  have  spoiled  its 
beauty,  and  had  it  fenced  and  preserved. 
And  now  my  little  grand-daughter  and  I 
sit  nndcr  its  shade !  The  fence  has  long 
since  decayed ;  but  it  is  not  needed. 
The  cattle  come  and  lie  under  its  shadow, 
as  we  do.  It  is  a  noble  oak-tree  now, 
and  oives  shelter  instead  of  ncedino: 
it.'"' 

Then  the  oak  rustled  above  them ; 
and  the  old  man  and  the  child  thought 
it  was  a  summer  breeze  stirring  the 
branches.  But  in  reality  it  was  the  oak 
laughing  to  itself,  as  it  thought — 


]_^2  THE  ACORN. 


"  Then  I  am  really  a  tree !  and, 
whilst  I  was  wondering  when  my  train- 
ing would  begin,  it  has  been  finished, 
and  I  am  an  oak  after  all!  " 


I^acalikd  III  lr}ousfe!JolCi  ^Ijinggf* 


iaacalileff  in  llloujSeTjoll!  'cEfjiitrj:!?. 


5IHE  sick  gill  lay  in  her  shaded 
room,  in  the  street  of  a  great 
city,  and  thought,  "  If  I  could 
only  leave  this  prison  of  mine,  and  look 
at  the  beautiful  world,  I  know  I  should 
grow  happier  and  holier  with  every 
breath  I  drew.  The  thorny  bud  on  tlie 
brown  branches  in  spring  would  give  me 
promise  of  resurrection ;  every  butterfly 
would  tell  me  of  life  through  death ; 
every  flower  would  lift  my  heart  to  Him 
who  cares  for  our  little  pleasures ;  every 
bubbling  spring  would  murmur  to  me 


155  PARABLES  IN 

of  the  living  water ;  every  corn-field  and 
garden  would  repeat  the  sacred  parables. 
But  here  I  can  see  nothing  of  God's 
making  but  the  sky,  and  that  is  too  high 
and  far.  I  want  some  steps  to  take  my 
feeble  thoughts  gently  up  to  heaven. 
But  around  me  are  only  manufactured 
things,  which  speak  to  me  only  of  earth, 
and  time,  and  man.'' 

She  leant  back  listlessly  on  her  couch. 
Twilight  cameover  the  room,theglowing 
coals  stirred  quietly  as  they  burnt  away, 
and  then  it  seemed  as  if  an  angel's  hand 
touched  her  ears  and  opened  them, for  the 
dark  and  silent  room  became  full  of  soft 
and  soothing  harmonies.  All  the  mute 
and  inanimate  things  about  her  found 
voices  and  spoke  comfort  to  her  heart. 

Together  they  said — "  It  is  true  we  are 


HOUSEHOLD  THINGS.  I57 

only  manufactured  things ;  but  do  not 
despise  us  for  that !  We  came  originally, 
as  much  as  you  yourself,  or  the  flowers, 
and  the  trees,  and  the  sunbeams,  from 
one  Divine  Hand.  It  is  only  that  we 
have  been  tramed  and  moulded  by  human 
hands  to  be  what  we  are.  And  just  so 
are  you;  God  creates  you,  but  life 
moulds  you.  Your  trial  and  your  train- 
ing come  like  ours,  mostly  through  hu- 
man hands,  although  you  are  destined 
for  higher  plans  and  more  blessed  ser- 
vices. Listen  to  us,  for  we  have  mes- 
sages for  you,  each  one  of  us." 

Then  the  stones  from  the  wall  said — 
"We  come  from  the  mountains  far 
away,  from  the  sides  of  the  craggy  hills. 
Fire  and  water  worked  on  us  for  ages, 
but  onlv  made  us  crags.    Human  hands 


i:;8  PARABLES  IN 


have  made  us  into  a  dwelling  where  the 
children  of  your  immortal  race  are  born, 
and  suffer,  and  rejoice,  and  find  rest  and 
shelter,  and  learn  the  lessons  set  them 
by  our  Maker  and  yours.  '  But  we  have 
passed  through  much  to  fit  us  for  this. 
Gunpowder  has  rent  our  very  heart; 
pickaxes  have  cleaved  and  broken  us,  it 
seemed  to  us  often  without  design  or 
meaning,  as  we  lay  misshapen  stones  in 
the  quarry  ;  but  gradually  we  were  cut 
into  blocks,  and  some  of  us  were  chisel- 
led with  finer  instruments  to  a  sharper 
edge.  But  we  are  complete  now,  and 
are  in  our  places,  and  are  of  service. 
You  are  in  the  quarry  still,  and  not 
complete,  and  therefore  to  you,  as  once 
to  us,  much  is  inexplicable.  But  you 
are  destined  for  a  higher  building,  and 


HOUSEHOLD  THINGS.  I59 

one  day  vovi  will  be  placed  in  it  by  hands 
not  human  ;  a  living  stone  in  a  hea- 
venly temple." 

Then  the  glass  water-beaker  said — "  I 
was  hard  flint  and  waste  sand  on  the 
desolate  sea-shore  onee,  but  human 
hands  gathered  me,  and  fused  me  in 
furnaces  heated  seven  times,  and  took 
me  out  to  let  me  cool,  and  cast  me  in 
again,  and  shaped  and  cut  me  till  at  last 
I  carry  your  water  from  the  spring,  and 
am  pressed  with  many  a  thankful  glance 
to  your  parched  lips.  I  am  complete. 
But  you,  when  you  have  passed  through 
your  fires,  will  be  a  vessel  of  living  water 
ina  better  hand, and  bear  many  a  draught 
of  refreshment  to  weary  and  thirsty 
hearts." 

"  I  also  have  been  in  many  furnaces," 


l6o  PARABLES  IN 

said  the  china  flower -vase.  "The 
colours  you  so  olten  admire  in  me,  have 
been  burnt  in  slowly,  stage  by  stage, 
every  fresh  colour  requiring  a  fresh  fus- 
ing in  the  furnace.  But  you,  when  your 
trial  is  over,  shall  carry  flowers  of  Para- 
dise and  leaves  from  the  tree  of  life  for 
the  healing  of  the  nations." 

"And  T,"  said  the  clock,  "am  scarcely 
an  individual  being.  I  am  a  little  world 
in  myself^ — a  wondrous  combination  of 
mechanism.  Each  of  my  wheels  and 
springs,  with  my  unwearied  pendulum, 
has  its  own  history  of  fires  and  blows 
and  ruthless  instruments.  None  of  us 
could  form  the  slightest  idea,  as  we  lav 
dismembered  in  our  various  workshops, 
what  we  were  designed  for.  Only  in 
combination  with  every  other  part,  has 


HOUSEHOLD  THINGS.  l5l 

any  part  of  us  any  meaning.  You 
are  not  a  little  world  like  me,  but  a 
fragment  of  a  great  world.  When  all 
that  belong  to  you  are  gathered  together, 
you  will  understand  it  all  as  we  do  now. 
And  your  voice  will  mark  with  joyous 
music  the  flight  of  blessed  ages  which 
only  lead  to  others  more  and  more 
blessed  throucrhout  eternity." 

*'And  T,"  said  the  bronze  pastille- 
burncFj  "  came  from  ages  of  darkness  in 
the  depths  of  the  earth.  Human  hands 
brouo;ht  me  to  the  liirht,  moulded  and 
sculptured  me,  and  set  me  here  to  burn 
sweet  perfumes,  and  diffuse  fragrance 
around  me.  But  you  will  be  an  incense- 
bearer  in  a  Temple  by  and  by,  and  from 
you  shall  stream  a  fragrance  of  love  and 
praise  acceptable  to  God.'' 


l62  PARABLES  IX 

^'The  quarries  were  my  birthplace 
also/'  said  the  alabaster  night-lamp  j 
"  but  you  shall  be  a  light-bearer,  when 
your  training  is  complete,  of  a  light 
which  is  life,  and  which  has  no  need  of 
night,  like  my  dim  flame,  to  make  it 
visible." 

"I,"  sang  the  guitar,  with  the  wooden 
frame  and  metallic  strings,  "  am  a  two- 
fold being.  I  lived  and  waved  in  the 
forest  once  J  and  then  the  woodman's 
axe  was  laid  on  me,  and  I  fell, — I  fell, 
and  the  life  departed  from  me;  and  from 
a  living,  life-bearing  tree,  I  became  mere 
inanimate  timber.  More  blows,  more 
tearing  with  sav/s,  more  sharp  cuttinir 
with  knife  and  chisel,  and  I  became 
melodious  again,  simply  from  being 
united  with  these  metallic  strino-s,  which 


HOUSEHOLD  THINGS.  163 

never  had  life,  but  lay  silent  in  mines,  till 
the  hand  of  man  woke  them  into  music. 
And  thus  together  we  respond  to  your 
gentle  touch,  and  soothe  for  you  many 
a  lonely  hour.  Life  from  death,  music 
through  fires  of  trial :  this  is  also  your 
destiny.  Hereafter  every  nerve  of  your 
tried  and  perfected  being  shall  respond 
to  the  slightest  touch  of  the  Hand 
you  love,  filling  heaven  with  happy 
music." 

"  As  for  me,"  said  the  pages  of  the 
Prayer-book,  "  my  discipline  has,  per- 
haps, been  the  severest  of  all.  Once 
rustling  in  the  flax-field,  rejoicing  in 
the  dews  and  sunshine,  I  was  torn, 
racked,  twisted,  and  woven  by  many 
iron  hands  into  linen.  Then,  for  a 
time,   treated   carefully,   decorated   and 


l64-  PARABLES  IN 


treasured,  and  washed  and  perfumed,  I 
was  afterwards  thrown  scorufully  away. 
Yet,  even  in  that  low  estate,  I  found 
comfort.  Even  as  a  rag  I  bound  up 
the  wounds  of  suffcrhig  soldiers  in  a 
military  hospital.  But  I  was  to  sink 
lower  yet.  I  was  thrown  into  a  mill, 
and  pounded,  crushed,  and  torn,  till  I 
was  a  mere  shapeless  pulp.  Yet  from 
those  depths  my  true  life  began.  Pro- 
cess after  process  succeeded,  till  here,  at 
last,  I  am  to  speak  to  you  undying 
words  of  hope  and  love.  And  you  also, 
one  dav,  shall  shine  forth  a  living 
epistle,  proclaiming  to  angels  and  men 
for  ever  and  for  ever  such  words  as  speak 
to  you  from  my  pages  now  !  " 

The  sick  girl  smiled,  and  was  com- 
forted.     "Yet,"   she  said,   "the  fires 


HOUSEHOLD  THINGS.  165 

are  fierce,  the  blows  are  heavy,  the  trial 
is  long.  The  end  is,  indeed,  well  worth 
them  all ;  but  sometimes  the  end  seems 
distant!" 

"  Yes,"  responded  the  Prayer-book, 
"  my  history  resembles  yours  in  one 
happy  feature  more  than  that  of  any  of 
us  besides.  For  even  in  your  days  of 
training  you  are  of  service.  You  may 
clothe  cold  limbs,  and  bind  up  many 
wounds  even  now,  as  I  did  when  I  was 
a  poor  linen-rag.  And,  more  than  that, 
even  now,  in  your  time  of  trial,  the  minis- 
tries you  are  destined  for  at  last  may  be 
begun.  Even  now  you  may  be  a  living 
epistle,  a  book  wherein  many  may  read 
lessons  of  hope  and  patience,  and  sing 
praises,  as  they  look  on  you,  as  you  do 
when  you  look  on  me." 


1 66  PARABLES  IN 


"Yes,"  responded  the  stones;  "even 
now  you  are  a  living  stone.  The  temple 
you  are  to  form  is  building  even  now." 
And  the  pastille-burner :  —  "  Even 
now  your  prayers  and  praises  may  rise 
like  sweet  ineense.'^ 

And    the   water-glass  :  —  "  Many  a 
draught  of  living  water  may  you  carry, 
even  now,  in  the  dry  and  thirsty  land,  to  • 
hearts  that  need  it." 

And  the  night-lamp: — "Even  now 
in  the  night,  thou,  child  of  the  day, 
sheddest  light  around  thee — a  little  light, 
it  may  be,  in  a  narrow  circle,  yet  which, 
though  thou  mayest  not  know  it,  cheers 
and  guides  not  a  few,  even  now." 

And  the  guitar: — "Many  a  strain 
of  thankful  song  has  come  from  the 
depths  of  your  heart,  even  now^  in  these 


HOUSEHOLD  THINGS.  167 

your  days  of  trial,  to  blend  with  my  har- 
monies, and  to  soar  to  regions  which 
my  poor  metallic  music  can  never 
reach ! " 

And  all  the  mute  things  sang  to- 
gether— ^'  We  are  complete  and  rejoice 
to  serve  you,  vessels  meet  for  your 
using.  One  day  you  also  shall  be  per- 
fected, a  vessel  meet  for  the  Master's 
use.  And  then  He  will  take  you  into 
His  house,  unto  the  temple  which  is  a 
home  and  yoar  home  for  ever.  Like 
us,  when  you  are  perfected,  you  shall 
serve  ^  tut,  unlike  us,  even  whilst  you 
are  being  perfected,  you  may  serve ! " 

Then  the  sufferer  turned  over  the 
leaves  of  another  Book,  and  saw  how 
the  Master  had  written  His  parables,  not 
in  streams,   and  corn-fields,  and  birds. 


l6S  PARABLES,  ETC. 

and  flowers,  and  fruitful  earth,  and 
starry  sky  alone,  but  in  common  house- 
hold things,  and  common  human  ties. 
And  henceforth,  not  nature  only,  but 
cvery-day  cares,  and  duties,  and  relation- 
ships, and  all  things  around  her,  became 
for  her  illuminated  with  the  lessons  of 
His  love. 


^ais^agc^  from  tlje  Effe 
of  a  iFcnu 


Pci0-5aa:c5  from  tijc  ILitt 
of  a  ifcriu 


}Y  life  has  been  one  of  such 
extraordinary  vicissitudes  as 
might  have  made  many  almost 
doubt  their  own  identity.  But  it  is  only 
to-day  that  I  have  learned  its  real  pur- 
pose. To-day,  for  the  first  time,  I 
am  content.  A  light  has  dawned  on 
me  which  makes  all  the  dark  passages 
of  my  former  life  clear  and  luminous, 
and  unites  the  whole  into  one  har- 
inonious  picture.  I  will  narrate  a  few 
of  my  adventures  to  you  while  I  am  full 
of  this  happy  discovery. 


172  PASSAGES  FROM  THE 

The  first  thing  I  cati  remember  is 
being  in  a  world  Overflowing  with  hfe 
in  every  form.  It  was  a  tropieal  forest. 
Gigantic  palms  rose  above  me  so  high 
that  I  could  not  see  their  feathery 
crowns.  From  one  erect  stem  to  an- 
other hung  tangled  festoons  of  parasites 
and  climbing  plants,  broad,  rich,  green 
leaves  which  fell  into  stately  crowns  with 
their  own  weight,  enormous  gorgeous 
flowers,  delicate  wreaths  of  intertwined 
many-coloured  blossoms  and  many- 
shaped  foliage ;  so  that  when  I  looked 
up  I  could  scarcely  see  one  point  of  the 
deep  blue  sky,  except  when  a  strong 
wind  made  rifts  in  my  iretted  roof. 
Scarcely  one  ray  of  light  fell  on  me  pure, 
but  broken  and  green  and  tremulous, 
softly  shaded,  or  tinted  like  a  rainbow 


LIFE  OF  A  FERN.  I  73 


through  the  flowers.  The  animals  which 
hved  in  our  forest  depths  I  cannot  dis- 
tinctly recall.  I  have  not  seen  any  like 
them  for  so  many  thousand  years.  But 
all  was  gigantic,  and  many  would  seem 
misshapen  monsters  to  us  now.  Yet 
then  it  w^as  quite  natural,  and  an  every- 
day thing,  to  hear  the  great  tree-eaters 
tramping  each  like  an  army  through  the 
forest  shades,  cropping  the  tops  of  the 
highest  trees,  and  devouring  branches 
as  our  animals  crop  the  herbage.  Trees 
crackled  under  them  like  brambles. 
We  dreaded  much,  we  smaller  crea- 
tures, to  see  these  approach,  for  they 
trampled  down  a  generation  of  us  under 
the  tread  of  their  ponderous  feet.  There 
were  lizards  whose  scales  glittered  like 
the   waves  of  the  sea  in  the  sunshine, 


174  PASSAGES  FROM  THE 

each  scale  a  massive  prismatic  metallic 
plate.  And  from  the  lower  reaches  of 
the  forest,  where  the  hot  mist  steamed 
up  from  the  marshy  hollows,  monstrous 
creatures,  half-fish,  half-forest-climbers, 
occasionally  strayed  among  us. 

I  cannot  recall  if  there  was  music  in 
the  forest;  yet  I  think  I  hear  across 
these  countless  years  the  dim  echoes  of 
strange  voices,  which  have  been  silenced 
for  ages  on  the  earth,  a  confusion  of  wild 
calls  and  cries  in  the  mornings  and  even- 
ings, weird  bell-notes  tolling  through  the 
sultry  noon-day  silences,  and  a  confused 
whirr,  and  buzzing,  and  croaking,  and 
whizzine:,  and  rustlino;  of  countless 
smaller  animals  which  have  perished 
and  left  no  trace  of  their  existence  be- 
hind. 


LIFE  OF  A  FERN. 


^15 


But  the  creatures  which  impressed  the 
restless  character  on  my  being,  which 
only  to-day  the  sun  has  smiled  away, 
were  some  near  relations  ofmv  own.  For, 
although  I  was  but  a  little  fern,  manv 
of  my  race  were  among  the  lords  of  the 
forest.  Their  roots  spread  into  magni- 
ficent curved  pedestals ;  their  stems  rose, 
decorated,  and  erect  as  the  palms,  to  the 
height  of  the  tallest  trees;  and  their 
fronds  expanded  into  ribbed  and  fretted 
roofs,  beneath  which  hundreds  like  mc 
could  fiud  shade  and  shelter,  vet  everv 
frond  as  dclicatciv  iVinned  and  edo'cd  as 
any  of  ours. 

I  thought — "  These  are  my  elder 
sisters.  One  day  T  shall  grow  like 
them."  Thus  my  own  daily  life  seemed 
empty  and  shadowy  to  me,  because  of 


iy6  PASSAGES  FROM  THE 

the  strong  yearning  that  possessed  me 
to  be  great  like  them.  It  did  not  make 
me  discontented  or  desponding,  but 
filled  me  with  a  wild  and  feverish  ex- 
pectation which  made  the  present  appear 
nothing  to  me.  I  stretched  out  my 
little  fronds,  and  caught  every  sunbeam 
and  rain-drop  I  could;  and  when  a 
shower  came,  and  the  life-giving  waters 
circulated  through  my  veins,  I  throbbed 
with  vague  desire,  and  thought,  "  Now 
T  am  to  be  something. '^ 

But  with  all  my  efforts  I  never  could 
grow  to  be  any  thing  but  a  little  fern ! 
So  the  summer  passed,  and  then  I  felt 
myself  growing  shrivelled  and  old.  My 
limbs  contracted,  mv  fronds  curled  up 
and  turned  dry  and  brown,  and  in  a 
few  weeks  I  was  scarcclv  visible.     But 


LIFK  OF  A    FERN.  I/) 

the  spring  revived  me  and  my  yearnings, 
and  I  grew  certamly  very  handsome  and 
tall  for  one  of  my  branch  of  our  family  ; 
but  still  only  a  little  fern  ! 

The  forest  decayed,  I  know  not  how. 
The  marsh  extended,  and,  instead  of  the 
world  of  varied  exuberant  life,  we  lay  a 
long  time  a  mass  of  steaming,  moulder- 
ing decay.  And  then,  through  millen- 
niums more,  we  stiflened  and  hardened 
and  grew  black  and  shapeless,  and  were 
buried  in  the  dark,  no  one  can  say  how 
lone:,  for  to  us,  throughout  those  change- 
less ages,  there  were  no  days  and  no 
seasons  to  measure  time. 

At  last  a  light  came  to  us,  not  the  sun, 
but  a  little  trembling  light,  in  the  hands 
of  a  living  creature,  such  as  we  had  never 
seen.    I  know  now  it  was  a  man.    Then 

M 


178  PASSAGES  FROM  THE 

tbllowed  a  time  of  stir  and  noise  and 
knocking  about,  such  as  I  shall  never 
forget.  We  were  hewn  with  pick-axes, 
and  tossed  into  buckets,  and,  at  last, 
lifted  into  the  real  old  sunlight  we  had 
not  seen  for  countless  ages.  The  sun 
was  the  same  as  ever,  as  young  and 
bright,  it  seemed,  as  he  had  been  thou- 
sands of  years  before;  but  we  did  not 
bask  long  in  his  beams. 

A  period  followed  of  darkness  and 
cold  and  silence,  in  which  all  the  world 
seemed  to  have  forgotten  my  existence, 
although  I  had  been  dragged  out  of  my 
native  bed,  and  stored  in  this  den  with 
so  much  pains.  But  they  remembered 
us  at  last.  One  evening,  after  passing 
through  a  great  deal  of  commotion,  I 
found  myself  in  an    open  place,  with 


LIFE  OF  A  FERN.  179 

many  of  my  brethren.     A  light  hke  that 
we  had  first  seen,  after  our  ages  of  dark- 
ness in  the  heart  of  the  earth,  was  ap- 
plied to  us,  and  then  the  strangest  trans- 
formation passed  over  me.     Just  as  the 
water  had  streamed  through  my  green 
veins  in  the  forest  of  old,  a  new  element 
beo-an  to  course  through  all  my  black  and 
stony  heart.     That  light  ran  through 
and  through  me,  until  I  became,  not  a 
receiver,  but  actually  a  giver  of  light. 
Instead  of  my   green    fronds,    delicate 
pencils  of  red  and  golden  llame  streamed 
from  me,  until  I  became  one  glowing 
substance ;  and,  in  my  own  light,  I  ac- 
tually saw  living  faces  looking  thank- 
fully at  me,  and  human  hands  stretclied 
out  to  feel  my  warmth,  just  as  of  old  I 
had  spread  my  fronds  in  the  rays  of  the 


l8o  PASSAGES  FROM  THE 

sun.  But  I  was  too  full  of  my-old  vague 
longings  to  enjoy  or  observe  any  of  thost 
things  much,  for  I  thought,  with  glow- 
in  o^  confidence,  "  Now,  I  am  to  be  some- 
thing  great  at  last!  " 

It  was  the  last  glunmer  of  that  vague 
ambition  in  me.  My  light  faded,  I  grew 
cold,  and,  which  was  worse,  I  fell  to 
pieces,  became  mere  dust,  and  was  wafted 
about  by  the  shghtest  breath,  so  that  I 
had  the  greatest  difficulty  in  preserving 
my  own  identity.  1  Avas  ev^en  ignomi- 
niously  swept  uway  by  the  very  hands 
which  had  spread  so  gratefully  in  my 
light  only  a  few  hours  before,  and  toss- 
ed contemptuously  out  into  a  rubbish 
heap  behind  the  house.  But  there, 
happily  for  me,  I  was  once  more  in  the 
sunshine ;  and  the  sun,  and  all  heavenly 


LIFE  OF  A  FERN.  101 

creatures,  think  scorn  of  no  one.  Thev 
smiled  on  me,  a  poor  heap  of  ashes, 
as  if  I  had  been  a  tree-fern  ;  and  the 
gentle  dews  descended  on  me,  as  if  I 
had  been  a  flower ;  and  the  birds  and 
winds  scattered  seeds  amongst  us,  until 
I  began  to  feel  once  more  something 
like  the  stirrings  of  life  within  me.  I 
had  blended  my  being  with  a  little 
seed,  and  in  the  spring  green  tufts 
of  life  burst  out  from  my  shrivelled 
heart.  I  grew,  and  spread,  and  drank 
in  rain  and  sunshine,  until  at  length  I 
waved  and  expanded  in  the  summer 
breeze — a  little  fern  ! 

Then  a  bright,  transforming  thought 
flashed  through  me.  In  the  tropical 
forest,  in  the  black  coal-beds,  on  the 
glowing  hearth,  I  had  not  been  an  im- 


I(S2  PASSAGES  FROM  THE 

perfect  likeness  and  a  vague  |)romise  of 
something  elsc^  but  myself,  in  my  little 
degree,  pleasant  and  serviceable ;  exactlv 
the  best  thing  it  was  possible  for  me  to 
be,  filling  up  my  tiny  measure  of  ser- 
vice in  the  world,  so  that  the  world 
would  have  been  the  poorer  for  that 
tiny  measure  of  pleasure  and  good  with- 
out me.  How  happy  I  might  have 
been  always  if  I  had  known  this  before ! 
How  happy  I  am  to  know  it  now  ! 

I  begin  life  again,  but  I  have  learned 
my  lesson.  I  am  something;  not  some- 
thing great,  but  something  I  was  meant 
to  be — a  little  green  happy  fern.  At 
this  moment  I  tremble  with  joy  in  the 
soft  breezes,  I  thrill  with  life,  I  drink 
the  rain-drops,  and  the  next  moment 
and  to-morrow  will  brino-  each  its  store 


LIFE  OF  A  FERN.  183 

of  work  and  joy  for  nic,  and  I  shall  be 
the  highest  thing  T  could  wish  to  be, 
the  thing  I  was  made  to  be.  And  now 
I  am  here  near  the  tall  trees,  and 
among  the  many-coloured  flowers,  a 
little,  happy,  lowly  fern. 


JParables, 


E  have  lived  a  long  time  here 
together,"  said  the  ponder- 
ous Alarm-bell  to  the  little 
brisk  bell  in  the  clock-tower  of  the 
Orphan-house,  "  and  a  useful  life  yours 
has  been !  I  have  watched  carefully, 
and  never  once  during  these  hundred 
years  that  we  have  stood  side  by  side 
have  you  failed  to  tell  the  hours  and  half- 
hours  by  day  and  night.  I  have  plenty 
of  leisure  for  thought ;  but  it  would 
be  beyond  my  powers  to  calculate  how 


1 88  THE  CLOCK-BELL  AND 

often  your  voice  has  been  heard  in  the 
service  of  man.  I  observe,  too,  how 
much  attention  is  paid  you  by  all,  and 
with  how  much  well-deserved  respect 
you  are  regarded.  Nothing  is  done  in 
house  or  field  without  your  sanction. 
At  your  early  call,  this  little  busy  hive 
begins  to  stir  in  the  morning.  At  your 
mid-day  invitation,  the  boys  gather  from 
the  fields  where  they  have  been  working, 
and  the  girls  from  the  laundries  and  work- 
rooms to  the  noonday  meal.  At  your 
evening  summons,  the  doors  are  closed 
at  night,  and  not  a  sound  is  heard 
afterwards  in  house  or  field  until  your 
steady  voice  wakens  our  little  world 
again.  Yours  is,  indeed,  a  useful, 
honoured  life ;  but  as  for  me,  who  can 
tell  what   I    am  made  for?      Since  I 


THE  ALARM-BELL.  1 89 

was  placed  here  first,  a  hundred  years 
ago,  hfted  up  with  enormous  trouble 
and  labour,  and  safely  roofed  in  my 
belfry,  not  a  creature  has  heard  my 
voice,  or  been  the  better  for  my  existence. 
I  might  as  well  have  been  lying  still  a 
lump  of  unsmelted  ore  in  the  depths  of 
the  mines.  I  feel  so  stiff  and  rusty, 
that  I  sometimes  question  if  they  could 
move  me  if  they  tried.  For  you,  daily, 
hourly  usefulness !  for  me,  a  hundred 
years  of  silence !  And  who  can  say  how 
many  more?  I  do  not  complain;  but 
our  destinies  are  very  different.  It  must 
be  wonderfully  happy  to  be  so  useful, 
and  to  be  looked  on  by  every  one  with 
such  attention  and  regard.  Of  course, 
I  could  not  expect  to  be  as  serviceable 
as   you — I,  with   my  cumbrous,  pon- 


190  THE  CLOCK-BELL  AND 

derous  mass  of  heavy  metal,  and  you, 
hung  so  lightly,  so  graceful  in  your 
shape,  so  brisk  in  all  your  movements, 
so  cheery  and  pleasant  in  your  voice. 
But  I  should  like  to  be  of  some  use 
once  in  my  life,  even  if  it  were  only  to 
know  for  what  purpose  I  was  made, 
and  set  on  hioh." 

O 

"Wait!"  said  the  Clock-bell;  "there 
must  be  some  work  for  you.  It  would 
have  taken  a  hundred  such  as  I  am  to 
make  one  like  you.  Think  of  the 
trouble  there  must  have  been  in  getting 
a  mould  large  enough  for  you — of  the 
labour  it  was  to  raise  you  so  high.  You 
must  be  set  there  for  some  end,  although 
we  do  not  yet  know  what.  Wait!" 
said  the  Clock-bell,  cheerily,  and  struck 
nine. 


THE  ALARM-BELL.  I91 

Then  there  was  a  sound  from  within 
the  house,  as  of  many  childish  voices 
singing  an  evening  hymn.  A  few  mi- 
nutes after,  all  was  still,  and  ten  o'clock 
echoed  over  the  silent  fields  to  the  sleep- 
ing city  near  at  hand. 

But  that  night  there  was  an  unusual 
stir  in  the  Orphan-house.  Feet  were 
heard  rushing  hither  and  thither;  and 
from  every  window  poured  forth  the 
cry  : — "  Fire !  fire ! — the  Orphan-house 
is  on  fire!''  And,  through  the  dark- 
ness, lurid  smoke  began  to  rise  from  an 
outhouse  attached  to  the  main  building. 
Then  came  another  cry : — "The  Alarm- 
bell !  Ring  the  Alarm-bell!"  And  feet 
were  heard  on  the  steps  of  the  belfry- 
tower  ;  and  hands  began  pulling  vigor- 
ously at  the  ropes,  and  in  a  moment, 


193  THE  CLOCK-BELL  AND 

for  the  first  time,  the  deep  tones  of  the 
long  silent  bell  pealed  heavily  on  the  mid- 
night air.  They  awoke  the  city.  In  a 
short  time,  fire-engines  were  on  the  w^ay. 
Streams  of  water  played  on  the  flames, 
and  quenched  them;  and  the  children 
and  the  Orphan-house  were  saved.  * 

The  next  morning  all  was  silent  again, 
as  if  nothing  had  happened;  the  out- 
house lay  in  ashes,  but  the  Orphan-house 
was  uninjured.  At  eight  the  Clock- 
bell  called  the  children  to  their  morn- 
ing prayer ;  whilst  the  Alarm-bell  had 
relapsed  into  silence,  perhaps  for  another 
century. 

But  the  Clock-bell  said— "You 
have  done  in  an  hour  the  service  of  a 
century.  Had  it  not  been  for  you  I 
should  never  have  struck  another  hour." 


THE  ALARM-BELL.  I93 


And  the  grateful  children  often 
looked  up  as  they  passed  beneath,  and 
said — "  Had  it  not  been  for  our  good 
Alarm-bell  we  might  all  have  perished !" 

So  the  Alarm-bell  learned  what  it  was 
made  for;  and  was  content  to  wait  an- 
other hundred  years,  or  more,-  before  its 
voice  was  heard  again. 


djoru0  auti  »)pinej5^* 


[N  a  garden  there  once  grew  a 
beautiful,  blossoming  thorn. 
When  the  spring  came,  for  a 
fortnight  it  was  always  clothed  with  a 
robe  of  white  blossoms.  They  seemed 
at  once  relics  of  winter,  and  promises  of 
summer.  It  was  as  if  Winter,  in  de- 
parting from  the  earth,  had  left  behind 
a  fragment  of  his  snowy  vestments;  and 

*  Thorns  are  abortive  leaf-buds.  Spines  are  the 
lower  leaves  of  plants  metamoq^hosed  into  bristles, 
to  guard  the  young  tree  from  the  attacks  of  cattle. 
This  little  parable  was  suggested  by  a  passage  in 
"Modem  Painters." 


196  THORNS  AND  SPINES. 


Spring,  touching  them  with  her  magic, 
wand,  had  transformed  them  from  snow- 
wreaths  into  wreaths  of  snowy  blossoms. 
They  were  beautiful  even  in  fading ;  and 
for  many  days  after  the  whiteness  had 
gone,  they  glowed  into  a  delicate  pink, 
and  strewed  the  earth  with  silky  petals 
when  they  fell.  On  this  thorn,  one 
spring,  a  little  brown  leaf-bud  formed, 
at  the  foot  of  a  green  twig,  the  cradle 
of  the  green  twigs  of  the  next  spring. 
But  it  happened  that,  as  this  brown 
leaf-bud  watched  the  beauty  of  the 
flowers,  it  grew  discontented  with  its 
destiny : — 

"  Why  am  not  I  a  flower-bud  ? "  it 
murmured,  inside  its  little  brown  casing. 
"  That  would  be  worth  living  for  1 — to 
fill   the  air  with  delicate  fragrance,  to 


THORNS  AND  SPINES.  I97 

be  sung  to  by  the  birds,  to  be  gathered 
by  human  hands  as  a  treasure ;  or  even 
to  live  unnoticed  by  any  one,  but  only 
to  be  a  flower! — a  beautiful,  fragrant 
creature,  with  a  coat  of  many  colours, 
and  a  crown  of  golden  stamens,  and 
with  promise  in  its  heart; — that  would 
be  worth  living  for!  But  to  be  a  leaf- 
bud,  a  brown,  dark,  hard  leaf-bud ! — it 
would  be  better  to  die  at  once." 

And  a  discontented  shiver  ran  through 
its  veins;  and  all  that  summer  it  never 
cared  to  drink  in  sun  or  rain,  but  sat 
and  shivered,  and  shrivelled  on  its  stem, 
while  all  around  it  meek  and  happy  buds 
were  growing  strong  and  full  of  life,  nour- 
ished by  the  same  rain  and  sunshine.  And 
in  the  spring,  when  the  w  hitc  shower  of 
snowy  flowers  came  again  on  the  thorn- 


igS  THORNS  AND  SPINES. 

tree,  and  the  other  leaf -buds  had  ex- 
panded into  green  twigs,  waving  and 
whispering  in  the  breeze,  with  each  a 
new  bud  at  its  feet,  the  envious  and 
discontented  bud  had  shrivelled  and 
narrowed  itself  into  a  thorn,  which 
pierced  the  hand  of  the  child,  as  it 
reached  up  to  gather  the  spray  of  fair 
white  blossom. 

•flP  •«•  ^  ^ 

In  a  field  near  this  garden  there  grew 
a  green  shrub,  which  at  the  top  ex- 
panded into  luxuriant  branches,  giving 
shade  at  mid-day  to  man  and  beast. 
But  from  the  lower  branches,  instead 
of  broad  green  leaves,  grew  long  sharp 
spines.  One  summer  day,  these  spines 
said  to  each  other,  in  their  short  and 
broken    speech,    for    they    could    not 


THORNS  AND  SPINES.  I99 

wave  and  rustle  in  the  wind  like  the 
leaves : — 

"We  are  not  worthy  to  live  on  the 
same  tree  with  the  beautiful  forest 
leaves  which  wave  in  the  fresh  air  above 
us.  We  can  make  no  refreshing  sound 
as  they  do;  we  give  no  shade  as 
they  do  to  any  creature ;  and  we  only 
prick  any  one  that  tries  to  touch  us. 
But  it  is  very  pleasant  to  us  to  be 
allowed  to  grow  from  the  same  trunk 
as  they;  and  it  is  very  kind  of  the 
sweet. leaves  to  sing  to  us  as  if  we  be- 
longed to  them,  and  not  to  be  ashamed 
of  us.  We  are  certainly  most  happily 
situated;  so  far  beyond  what  we  have 
any  right  to  expect !" 

But  all  the  leaves  rustled  in  a  joyous 
chorus,  and  said  : — "  You  are  our  elder 


200  THORNS  AND  SPINES. 

sisters,  meek  and  useful  spines!  If  it 
had  not  been  for  you,  we  should  never 
have  come  into  life  at  all,  and  man  and 
beast  would  have  had  no  shade  from  us. 
The  himgry  cattle  would  have  eaten  us 
before  we  unfolded,  and  our  parent-tree 
would  never  have  grown  to  what  it  is, 
had  it  not  been  for  you,  our  faithful 
and  patient  guardians.  If  you  had  re- 
belled against  the  gracious  hand  that 
moulds  us  all,  and  prevented  our  ex- 
panding into  leaves,  we  should  all  have 
perished  together  long  ago.  We  owe 
our  life  to  you  !  "  murmured  the  leaves. 

And  the  rough  spines  quivered 
through  all  their  faithful  hearts  at  the 
words  of  the  leaves. 

Then  the  master  passed  by,  and  he 
said : — "  Well  done,  my  faithful  spines  ! 


THORNS  AND  SPINES.  201 

you  have  done  your  work,  and  guarded 
my  treasures  well.  But  for  you  my 
trees  would  have  had  no  leaves,  and  my 
fields  no  shade." 

And  the  spines  wondered,  and  rejoiced 
greatly;  for  they  had  never  thought  that, 
in  meekly  and  contentedly  bearing  their 
rough  lot,  and  being  what  they  v/cre 
meant  to  be,  they  were  serving  the 
master,  and  doing  such  good  work  for 
others. 


»)ini0ljine,  ^Daplfgljt,  aiiti  tlje 
mock.* 


UNSHINE  and  Daylight  had 
one  day  a  serious  difference 
of  opinion  about  a  rocky 
waste,  over  which  their  course  led  them. 
"  I  am  not  severe/'  said  Dayhght, 
fixing  her  clear,  generalising  gray  eyes 
on  the  Rock.  "  If  I  cannot,  like  some 
people,  see  nothing  but  what  I  wish  to 
see,  no  one  ever  accused  me  of  blacken- 
ing any  one's  character.  I  have  known 
that  old  rock  more  years  than  I  care  to 
*  Reprinted  from  "Excelsior." 


204  SUNSHINE,  DAYLIGHT, 

mention ;  not  a  jagged  edge,  nor  a 
whimsical  cranny,  but  I  am  intimately 
acquainted  with,  and  I  do  not  hesitate 
to  say,  that  a  more  barren,  unmitigated 
rock  I  seldom  meet  with.  I  do  not 
slander  it.  I  only  say,  it  is  nothing 
more  or  less  than  a  rock." 

Sunshine  said  nothing,  but  peeped 
round  the  shoulder  of  her  cousin's  gray 
cloak,  until  the  smile  of  her  soft  eye  met 
the  eye  of  a  little  blue  violet,  which, 
by  dint  of  hard  living,  had  contrived  to 
obtain  a  secure  footing  in  a  crevice  of 
the  old  rock ;  and  a  flutter  of  joy  passed 
through  the  blossoms  and  leaves  of  the 
violet,  and  communicated  itself  to  a 
tuft  of  dry  short  grass,  which  had  en- 
sconced itself  behind.  The  red  and  gray 
cups  of  some  tiny  moss  and  lichens, 


AND  THE  ROCK.  205 

which  had  crept  into  corners  here  and 
there,  next  drank  in  her  kind  glances, 
and  fancied  themselves  wine-cups  at  a 
feast.  Here  and  there  specks  of  colour 
and  points  of  life  revealed  themselves, 
and,  as  they  looked,  expanded. 

By  this  time  Sunshine  had  folded 
Daylight  to  sleep  on  her  warm  breast. 
Many  weeks  had  passed,  when,  one  quiet 
afternoon.  Daylight  again  came  that 
way,  and  glancing  critically  around,  she 
murmured  to  Sunshine,  "  Where  is  the 
old  gray  rock  you  were  so  sanguine 
about?" 

Sunshine  was  silent :  her  motto  beinc:, 
"  Not  in  word,  neither  in  tongue,  but 
in  deed  and  in  truth;"  and  at  length 
Daylight's  quiet  eyes  awoke  to  the  fact, 
that  the  grassy  knoll   where  flowers — 


205     SUNSHINE,  DAYLIGHT,  ETC. 

tiny  rock-plants  indeed,  but  still  flowers 
— and  mosses  lay  dozing  unawakened 
by  her  sober  tread,  was  none  other  than 
the  rock  she  had  known  of  old.  And 
she  said,  meekly,  "  Truly  I  find  that  one 
way  to  create  beauty  is  to  perceive  it." 
Then  an  angel,  who  was  hovering 
near,  on  his  way  back  from  some  mes- 
sage of  mercy  (for  the  angels  never 
linger  till  their  messages  are  given),  sang 
softly,  "Love  veileth  a  multitude  of 
sins.'^  And  the  old  Rock  answered  in 
a  chorus,  through  its  moss-threads,  and 
lichen-cups,  and  leaves,  and  blossoms, 
"And  under  the  warm  veil  spring  a 
multitude  of  flowers." 


iHnnbcrcrs  anb  yUgvims. 


Saiantierer^  anti  ^iliyrint?. 


LARGE  tract  of  country  lav 
spread  before  me;  upland 
and  lowland,  hill  and  plain. 
The  whole  land  seemed  stirring  with 
perpetual  movement, all  in  one  direction; 
— from  the  bright  hills  at  its  commence- 
ment, to  the  dark  mountains  at  the  end. 
Earth  and  sky  seemed  moving,  as  when 
an  enormous  flight  of  migratory  birds 
is  passing  by,  but  earth  and  sky  were 
really  stationary.  This  movement  was 
one  constant  tide  of  human  life,  cease- 
lessly streaming  across  the  land. 


208     WANDERErxS  AND  PILGraMS. 

It  began  on  a  range  of  wooded 
hills,  with  their  sunny  southern  slopes, 
forests  and  flowery  banks,  and  grassy 
and  golden  fields.  Down  these  slopes 
joyous  bands  ran  fast.  As  I  looked 
closer,  I  saw  the  movement  was  not  in- 
cessant in  the  case  of  each  individual ; 
only  the  ceaseless  passing  of  the  great 
tide  of  life  made  it  seem  so.  Merry 
groups  paused  onthehill-sidcs,and  made 
fairy  gardens,  and  twined  leafy  tents 
where  they  would  sit  a  little  while  and 
sing  and  dance.  But  only  a  little  while  1 
No  hand  seemed  driving  them  onj  it 
appeared  only  an  inward  irresistible  in- 
stinct. Yet  soon  the  bright  groups 
were  scattered,  and  moved  down  ajxain 
over  the  hills,  often  never  joining  more. 

"  Why  do  you  hasten  awav  from  these 


WANDERERS    AND  PILGRIMS.     209 

sunny  slopes?"  I  said.  "There  seems 
nothing  so  pleasant  in  all  the  land  be- 
sides.^' 

"  Perhaps  not,"  the  travellers  replied, 
with  a  slight  sigh  ;  but  it  ended  in  a 
snatch  of  song  as  they  danced  gaily  on. 
**  Perhaps  not,  but  we  are  a  race  of 
Wanderers  1  We  cannot  stay ;  and  per- 
haps better  things  await  us  in  the 
plain." 

"Whither  are  you  going?"  I  asked. 
"  We  know  not,"  was  the  answer : 
"  only  onward,  onward  !  " 

In  the  plain  were  buildings  of  more 
solid  construction,  houses  and  cities. 
And  here  I  observed  many  of  the  tra- 
vellers would  have  gladly  lingered,  but 
it  could  not  be.  Homesteads,  and  corn- 
fields, and  vineyards,  all  had  to  be  left ; 


2IO    WANDERERS  AND  PILGRIMS. 

and  still  the  tide  of  life  streamed  on  and 
on. 

"Why?"  I  asked. 

"  It  is  the  doom  of  our  race/'  they 
saidj  sorrowfully;  "we  are  a  people  of 
Wanderers." 

"Whither?"  I  inquired. 

"We  do  not  know,"  was  the  reply; 
"  only  onwards  and  onwards  to  the  dark 
mountains  !" 

Slower  and  slower  grew  the  footsteps 
of  the  Wanderers,  more  and  more  re- 
gretful the  glances  they  cast  behind. 
Slower,  yet  with  fewer  pauses.  The 
strange  restless  impulse  drove  them 
steadily  on,  until,  wearied  and  tottering, 
they  began  the  ascent  of  the  dark  moun- 
tains. 

"  What  is  on  the  other  side?"  I  asked. 


WANDERERS  AND  PILGRIMS.     211 

"The  sea,"  they  said,  "the  Great  Sea/' 

"  How  will  you  cross  it,  and  what  is 
beyond  ?" 

"We  know  not,"  they  said,  with 
bitter  tears.  "But  we  are  a  doomed 
race  of  Wanderers — onwards,  onwards  ; 
we  may  not  stay  !  " 

Then  first  I  perceived  that,  among 
these  multitudes  of  aimless  Wanderers, 
there  was  one  band  who  kept  close  to- 
gether, and  moved  with  a  freedom  and 
a  purpose,  as  if  they  journeyed  on  not 
from  a  blind,  irresistible  impulse,  but 
from  choice.  Their  looks  were  seldom 
turned  regretfully  behind  them,  or  only 
on  the  dark  mountains.  They  looked 
to  something  higher. 

I  asked  them— "Why  are  you  thus 
hasting;  on  ?" 


212    WANDERERS  AND  PILGRIMS. 

"We  are  Pilgrims/'  they  replied; 
"we  would  not  linger  here." 

"Whither  are  you  going?"  I  in- 
quired. 

"  Home !  "  they  answered,  joyfully — 
"  to  a  Holy  City  which  is  our  Home.'^ 

"But  how  do  you  know  the  way?"  I 
asked,  for  no  barriers  seemed  to  limit 
their  path,  so  that  any  of  the  Wanderers 
might  join  it  at  any  point. 

"We  know  it  by  two  marks,''  they 
answered — "  by  the  footsteps  of  One 
who  trod  it  once,  and  left  indelible  foot- 
prints wherever  He  stepped.  And  we 
know  it  also  by  the  goal  to  which  it 
tends  1" 

Then  looking  up,  I  saw  resting  on 
the  mountams  where  this  path  ended,  a 
bridge  like  a  rainbow,  and  beyond  it,  in 


WANDERERS  AND  PILGRIMS.     313 

the  sky,  a  range  of  towers  and  walls, 
pearl  and  opal,  ruby  and  golden,  such 
as  in  a  summer  evening  is  sometimes 
faintly  pictured  on  the  clouds,  when 
the  setting  sun  shines  through  them. 
And  the  little  band  chanted  as  they 
went,  *'The  doom  of  our  race  is  re- 
versed for  us.  We  are  not  Wanderers  ; 
we  are  Pilgrims.  We  would  not  lino;er 
here ;  this  is  not  our  rest.  Onwards, 
upwards,  to  the  City ! — to  the  Home!" 


Ctje  ^cfe  anti  ti^t  form^sf* 


NE  day,  I  had  been  thinking 
about  the  terrors  of  the  Great 
Flood,  when  it  seemed  to  me 
that  I  saw  back  through  the  long  ages 
to  that  distant  day,  as  you  look  with  a 
night-glass  through  the  night  to  an 
illuminated  planet.  I  saw  an  old  man, 
venerable  with  the  centuries  by  which 
we  count  the  lives  of  nations,  not  of 
men,  yet  vigorous  with  the  vitality  of 
one  who  had  still  centuries  to  live.  He 
stood  on  an  inland  plain,  far  from  any 
sea;  yet  above  him  rose  the  sides  of  a 

215 


3l6   THE   ARK  AND  THE  FORTRESS. 

large  ship.  It  had  been  finished  that 
day.  Once  more  tlie  old  man  warned 
the  lauffhino;  crowds  around  of  the 
waters  which  would  surely  come  and 
float  the  vessel  high  above  the  sub- 
merged world.  He  had  told  them  the 
same  truth  for  a  hundred  and  twenty 
years.  There  had  been  no  indefinite- 
ness  about  his  prophecy.  As,  since  then, 
men  have  been  warned  by  the  uncer- 
tainty of  a  doom  which  may  come  at 
any  moment;  then,  they  were  warned  by 
the  certainty  of  a  period  definitely  fixed. 
Every  fall  of  the  leaf  had  brought  it  pre- 
cisely a  year  nearer.  And  now  the  last 
evening  of  the  last  year  had  come,  and 
once  more  the  patient  preacher  of  righte- 
ousness stood  and  warned  them  to  for- 
sake the  sill  which  must  bring  the  doom. 


THE  AKK  AND  THE  FORTRESS.  217 

But  in  vain.  There  was  no  persecu- 
tion :  perhaps  some  mockery,  as  thcv 
pointed  to  the  cloudless  skv,  and  the 
iields  and  forests  growing  daily  greener 
in  the  spring-tide  siuishine ;  but  for  the 
most  part  simply  unbelief  and  indiffer- 
ence. "  They  ate,  they  drank,  they 
married,  they  were  given  in  marriage." 
And  so  the  last  warning  was  finished, 
and  the  last  evening  closed. 

But  one  little  group  seemed  to  me  to 
detach  itself  from  the  rest  with  a  bolder 
confidence.  They  pointed  to  a  fortress 
on  the  highest  summit  of  the  mountain- 
range  above  them,  and  said  : — "  If  what 
you  say  is  true,  surely  we  shall  be  safer 
there  than  in  a  floating  ark  like  yours. 
In  the  rushing  of  the  (jreat  water-floods 
you  speak   of,  and  the  beating  of  the 


2l8  THE  ARK  AND  THE  FORTRESS. 

Storms,  our  mountain  fortress  will  serve 
us  better,  at  least,  than  your  wooden 
walls.  We  shall  look  down  from  our 
height  on  your  waters,  and,  perchance, 
see  the  wreck  of  your  vessel  drifted  to 
our  feet !  " 

The  patriarch  and  his  family  were 
shut  in  the  ark.  Before  the  next 
morning,  the  day  of  doom  had  set 
in.  Not  a  break  in  the  pitiless  roof 
of  clouds.  Steadily  the  torrents  pour- 
ed from  the  opened  flood-gates  of 
heaven,  whilst  the  waters  from  be- 
neath broke  their  barriers,  and  the  re- 
servoirs under  the  hills  burst  forth  in 
sudden  rivers. 

The  flood  had  begun.  The  vallevs 
became  lakes,  the  plains  seas;  but  the 
builders  of  the  mountain  fortress  had 


THE  ARK  AND  THE  FORTRESS.  219 

fled  to  it,  and  looked  triumphantly  down 
on  the  waves. 

Higher  and  higher  they  rose.  The 
lower  hills  were  covered.  The  moun- 
tain range  was  isolated.  But  the 
dwellers  in  the  fortress  thought,  "  We 
are  well  provisioned.  Tliis  catniot  last 
for  ever !" 

The  waters  rose.  Peak  after  peak 
hecamc  an  island.  And  at  last,  the 
highest  peak,  on  which  the  fortress 
stood,  looked  out  alone  upon  the  waste 
of  waters,  and  the  floating  ark  buoyed 
up  securely  on  them. 

They  looked  still  down  on  the  waters, 
but  with  trembling  hearts.  The  wild 
waves  dashed  furiouslv  against  this 
one  remaining  obstacle.  The  firmest 
human  masonrv  cannot  stand   like  the 


220  THE  ARK  AND  THE  FORTRESS. 

everlasting  rocks.  The  strong  founda- 
tions gave  way,  and  with  a  crash,  and 
a  wail  of  anguish,  the  fortress  fell, 
and  nothino-  rose  above  the  waters  but 
the  floating  cU'k.  For  nothing  that  is 
founded  on  earth  can  escape  the  doom 
of  earth.     But 

"  Planted  Paradise  was  not  so  firm 
As  was,  and  is,  Thy  floating  ark." 


%\)t  %\)vtt  HDrcam0» 


HAD  once  three  dreams  in 
close  succession,  which  I  will 
relate  to  you. 
In  the  first,  T  saw  a  magnificent 
palace,  a  little  world  of  gardens  and 
buildings,  a  city  in  itself.  All  was  en- 
closed within  a  high  wall,  so  that  from 
outside  you  could  see  nothing  of  it  ex- 
cept the  fairy  white  minarets,  pencilled 
delicately  against  the  blue  sky,  some  loftv 
battlemented  watch-towers,  and  several 
graceful  campaniles,  with  the  tops  of  a 
few  of  the  highest  trees.    Puit  a  delicious 


222  THE  THREE  DREAMS. 

blending  of  the  fragrance  of  a  thousand 
flowers  came  thence  in  summer  evenings, 
and  every  night, bell-tower,  watch-tower, 
spire,  and  dome,  and  minaret  were  illu- 
minated with  innumerable  starry  lamps, 
as  if  every  day  within  the  palace  were  a 
festival. 

Around  the  palace  were  the  lanes  and 
alleys  of  the  city — scenes  of  poverty  and 
squalor  —  which  contrasted  strangely 
with  it ;  and  wretched,  half-starved- 
looking  creatures,  with  tattered  garments 
and  faces  worn  with  deep  marks  of 
want  and  woe,  lingered  round  the  gates. 
Outside  the  gates  ! — and  this  was  one 
strange  incongruity  of  my  dream,  for  on 
the  gates  were  emblazoned  in  golden 
letters,  which  were  illuminated  into 
transparencies  at  night,  the  words — 


THE  THREE  DREAMS.  223 

"  KNOCK,  AND  IT  SHALL  BE  OPENED 
UNTO  YOU." 

The  gates  were  solid,  and  enormously 
massive,  like  blocks  of  black  marble. 
No  violence  could  have  forced  them. 
There  was  no  crevice  at  which  any  one 
could  get  a  glimpse  of  what  was  within. 
But  the  golden  knocker,  underneath 
those  golden  words,  was  so  low  as  to  be 
within  reach  of  the  youngest  children. 
Indeed,  I  noticed  that  none  tried  it  so 
often  as  little  children;  and  whenever 
any  one  knocked  with  the  very  feeblest 
sound,  in  time,  and  often  immediately, 
the  stately  portals  opened  from  within, 
turnino-  on  their  massive  hinsres  with 
a  sound  like  the  music  of  many  choirs, 
and  the  applicant  was  quietly  drawn 
inside.     Then  I  saw  that  the  inside  of 


224  '^^^^^  THREE  DREAMS. 

the  gates  was  of  translucent  pearl.  A 
stream  of  light  and  fragrance  for  a  mo- 
ment came  through,  and  uiduced  others 
afterwards  to  knock.  But  immediately 
the  gates  were  closed,  and  stood  a  wall 
of  impenetrable  marble  as  before. 

I  awoke,  and  whilst  meditating  on 
my  dream  fell  asleep  again. 

In  my  second  dream,  I  saw  the  same 
palace  as  in  my  first,  but  the  massive 
doors  were  gone,  and  in  their  place  stood 
the  form  of  One  whom,  although  T  had 
never  seen  Him,  I  had  heard  so  often 
described,  and  so  faithfully,  by  those  who 
had  seen  Him,  that  I  knew  Him  at  once. 
The  same  wretched  beings  were  cowering 
round;  but  the  massive  barriers  were 
jrone,  and  in  their  place  He  stood,  and 
said,  in  tones  that  every  one  could  hear — 


THE  THREE  DREAMS.  225 

"  /  am  the  Door.     By  me  if  any  man 
enter  he  shall  be  saved." 

One  wretched  and  woe-worn  woman 
ffave  a  trembling  glance  at  His  face,  and 
then  listening  again  to  those  tones,  not 
welcoming  merely,  but  pleading  and  per- 
suasively tender,  she  ventured  close  to 
Him,  and  fell  on  her  knees  to  kiss  the 
hem  of  His  garment.  But  He  stooped, 
and  stretched  out  His  hand,  and  took 
her  hand,  and  led  her  in.  Then  I  un- 
derstood what  His  words  had  meant; 
— that  by  saying,  "  I  am  the  door,"  He 
must  have  meant  that  there  was  no 
barrier,  no  impenetrable  gate,  but  that 
in  the  doorwav,  where  the  door  had 
been,  He  stood,  and,  instead  of  the 
lifeless  knocker,  stretched  out  His  living 

hands  to  aid  and  welcome  all  who  came, 
p 


226  THE  THREE  DREAMS. 


And  I  awoke  from  my  second  dream, 
*  *  *  * 

Before  long  I  fell  asleep  again,  and 
then  again  I  saw  the  same  palace,  with 
the  massive  portals  flung  open  wide,  but 
that  gracious  princely  form  stood  in 
them  no  more.  Among  the  most 
wretched  of  that  crowd  He  went — 
among  the  maimed,  the  halt,  and  the 
blind.  They  thronged  aroimd  Him, 
yet  many  of  them  scarcely  seemed  to 
heed,  they  were  so  intent  on  their  own 
sordid  pursuits.  Some  were  crowding 
with  sharp,  eager  faces  round  a  racr 
merchant,  bargaining  with  the  most 
absorbing  passion  for  his  wretched  wares, 
and  then  separating  to  quarrel  and  fight 
over  their  purchases,  or  bartering  their 
rags  again  as  eagerly  for  a  draught  of 


THE  THREE  DREAMS.  227 

the  intoxicating  drinks  which  had  made 
so  many  of  them  the  lost  creatures  they 
were.  Not  a  rag  or  a  burning  drop  was 
to  be  had  except  for  money,  and  often 
for  a  price  which  to  them  was  hfe  itself. 
And  He  came  to  them  from  the  palace, 
and  offered  them  the  palace  freely,  yet  few 
listened.  But  with  that  strange  absence 
ofthe  sense  of  incongruity  and  the  emo- 
tion of  surprise  characteristic  of  dreams, 
I  did  not  wonder!  Patiently  He  went 
in  and  out  among  them,  pleading  with 
one  and  another,  often  encountering 
rough  words  and  blows;  yet  still  His 
words  were — "  I  come  to  seek  and  save 
that  which  was  lost.''  And  some  even  of 
the  most  wretched  listened,  and  returned 
with  Him,  and  were  welcomed  inside. 
As  if"  Knock,  and  it  shall  be  opened!" 


Z28  THE  THREE  DREAMS. 

were  not  free  enough,  the  gates  wxre 
thrown  open  wide,  and  He  stood  there, 
the  outstretched  hand,  instead  of  the 
door,  the  living  friend,  instead  of  the 
written  words  of  welcome.  And  as  if 
that  were  not  enough,  instead  of  saying, 
"  Come  to  me  !  "  He  came  Himself — 
He  "  came  to  seek  and  to  save  that 
which  was  lost.'-* 


•^Ijou  anti  31** 


|N  a  room  in  a  stately  mansion, 
a  little  babe  lay  in  its  mother's 
arms.  All  kinds  of  beautiful 
things  were  around,  and  many  people 
passed  in  and  out.  Pictures  by  the  first 
masters  were  on  the  walls ;  the  rarest 
exotics  filled  the  air  with  choice  per- 
fumes. The  chair  in  which  the  mother 
sat  was  gilded  and  tapestried ;  the  carpet 
her  feet  rested   on   was  soft  as  mossy 

*  Suggested  by  a  passage  in  Sartorius'  "  Lehre 
von  der  heiligen  Liebe,"  contrasting  the  world  of  a 
cold  philosophy,  "  Ich  und  Nicht  Ich,"  with  the 
Christian's  world,  "  Ich  und  Du." 


230  THOU  AND  I. 

turf,  and  delicate  as  embroidery.  Jewels 
sparkled  on  her  dress.  The  windows 
opened  on  a  magnificent  landscape, 
of  park  and  lake,  woodland  and  distant 
hills.  But  the  little  babe  saw  nothing 
but  its  mother's  smile — understood  no- 
thing, but  that  it  was  on  its  mother's 
knee.  Its  only  consciousness  was  "  Thou 
and  I !"  and  love. 

^  ^  ^  ^ 

The  railway  train  was  entering  a  long 
tunnel.  The  babe  w^as  still  on  its 
mother's  knee.  The  darkness  grew 
deeper.  The  heavy  train  thundered 
through  the  hollow  earth.  Another 
met  it,  and  rushed  past  with  a  deafening 
din.  An  older  child  in  the  carriage 
screamed  with  terror.  Many  of  the  pas- 
sengers felt  uneasy,  and  were  impatient 


THOU  AND  I.  231 

to  see  the  light  again.  But  the  baby  cared 
nothing  for  tlie  noise  or  the  darkness. 
It  looked  in  the  dim  lamp-hght  into  its 
mother's  face,  and  saw  her  smile,  and 
smiled  again.  It  knew  nothing  of  the 
world  but  "  Thou  and  I !"  and  love. 

4f  ^  ^  ^ 

The  ship  was  tossing  fearfully  on  the 
stormy  sea.  Eveiy  timber  strained, 
every  wave  seemed  as  if  it  must  engulph 
the  vessel.  The  weak  and  timid  cried 
out  in  an  agony  of  fear.  The  brave 
and  loving  moved  about  with  white, 
compressed  lips,  and  contracted  brows, 
striving  now  and  then  to  say  some  brief 
reassuring  words  to  those  for  whose 
safety  they  feared.  But  the  babe  lay 
tranquil  and  happy  in  its  mother's 
arms.     Her  breast  was  to  it  a  shelter 


232  THOU  AND  1. 

against  the  world.     It  knew  nothing  ot 
danger  or  fear.    Its  world  was  "  Thou 

and  1 1 "  and  love. 

*  *  *  * 

Years  passed  away,  and  the  baby 
grew  into  a  child,  and  the  child  into  a 
man.  His  life  was  one  of  many  vicissi- 
tudes, of  passionate  hopes,  and  bitter 
sorrows,  and  wild  ambition.  He  wor- 
shipped the  world  in  many  forms,  and 
wandered  farther  and  farther  from  the 
Father's  house,  until  the  world  which 
first  had  beguiled  him  with  its  choice 
things,  came  to  feed  him  on  its  husks; 
and  a  long  way  off"  he  thought  of  the 
Father  and  the  home,  and  rose  to  re- 
turn. His  steps  were  doubtful  and 
slow,  but  the  heart  which  met  him  had 
no  hesitation  and  no  upbraidings.    Then 


THOU  AND  I.  233 

the  wanderer  understood  the  love  with 
which  he  had  been  watched  and  pitied 
all  those  desolate  years,  the  love  with 
which  he  was  welcomed  now.  The 
earth,  and  sky,  and  human  life  grew 
sacred  and  beautiful  to  him  as  they  had 
never  been,  because  through  them  all  a 
living  Presence  wms  around  him,  a  liv- 
ing heart  met  him ;  and,  as  of  old  on 
the  mother's  knee,  once  more,  as  he 
looked  up  to  God  his  Father,  his 
world  became  only  "Thou  and  I !"  and 
love. 

His  life  moved  rapidly  on  to  its  dark 
goal.  He  had  to  leave  the  sunshine  of 
earth,  its  pleasant  fields,  and  cherished 
homes,  and  all  familiar  things,  for  ever. 
The  light  grew  dimmer,  and  the  dark- 
ness  deepened.     But   he   had  no  fcnr. 


234  THOU  AND  1. 

Ill  the  darkness,  and  the  bewildering 
rush  of  new  experience,  he  was  again 
as  the  babe  on  the  mother's  knee.  To 
him  there  was  no  darkness,  no  con- 
fusion. He  looked  into  his  Father's 
face,  and  smiled.  Life  and  death  and 
earth,  all  he  left,  and  all  he  went 
to,  were  as  nothinof  to  him  then.  He 
Ijad  nothing  but  that  one  living,  loving 
Presence,  but  it  was  enough.  Again  it 
was  "Thou  and  I !"  and  love. 

And  death  found  that  childlike  and 
angelic  smile  upon  his  lips,  and  left  it 
there. 

*  *  5»  * 

A  day  will  come  of  storm,  and  fire, 
and  tempest,  and  convulsion,  when 
earth  and  heaven  shall  mingle  and  be 
rolled  up  as  a  scroll  and  pass  awav.    But 


THOU  AND  I.  235 


in  that  day  what  will  such  have  to  fear  ? 
Amidst  all  the  convulsed  worlds  the  re- 
deemed will  rest  tranquil  as  the  infant 
in  the  storm  on  its  mother's  breast. 
For  amidst  it  all,  their  eyes  will  rest  on 
the  Face  which  was  bowed  in  death  to 
save  them,  and  will  know  no  fear.  It 
will  be,  "  Thou  and  I,  and  Thon  art 
love !"  for  ever. 


THE  END. 


lOm-11, '50(2555)470 


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